


In My Blood: A Shawn Mendes Fanfic

by DorianGayFanfiction



Category: American Horror Story: Coven, Shawn Mendes (Musician), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prison, Angst, Crossover, F/F, F/M, Fetish, M/M, Prison Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2019-07-20 15:32:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 24
Words: 62,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16140209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DorianGayFanfiction/pseuds/DorianGayFanfiction
Summary: Shawn Mendes had a pretty good life. When he was sent to prison, that life was torn away. He must now come to terms with the stark realities, chance meetings and brutal betrayals of prison life. Men's Central Jail in LA is a minefield of horror, overseen by the mysterious Fiona Goode. The cast of characters Shawn meets along the way (Tom Holland, Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale, Henry Cavill, Nick Jonas and many, many more) will prove to be a raucous band of allies, friends, foes and enemies. Will it all be too much for the young Shawn? Or will he rise to the challenge?





	1. A Hopeless Place

**Author's Note:**

> Hi folks! This is my first ever attempt at publishing fan fiction! I hope you all enjoy it. If you have any comments, please do not hesitate to add them, I look forward to the feedback. Remember we all had to start somewhere so please nothing too vicious! Happy Reading! :)

The words rang out through the dry, still air of the hushed courtroom, like a clock tower chiming through the dead still of night.   
“We, the jury and the above entitled action, find the defendant, Shawn Peter Raul Mendes, guilty of the crime of drug possession with intent to distribute, in breach of Penal Code #841 under Federal and State Law.”   
The gasps were audible throughout the silent court, Karen Mendes’ small wail of anguish as the only sound. But the pain was far from over.   
“We also find the defendant, Shawn Peter Raul Mendes, guilty of the crime of attempted murder upon Cameron Alexander Dallas, a human being, in breach of Penal Code #41.9, actionable under both Federal and State Law.”   
The defendant sat impassive, as the hot, searing pain sliced through his body. He felt disjointed from reality, that he wasn’t here. They couldn’t be talking about him.   
I’m going to jail.   
The realization struck him like the lash of a hunting crop and settled deep in his groin. He felt sick. His big, brown eyes blinked rapidly to avoid tears.   
The Honorable Judge Marcia Clark, who had presided over the four long months’ proceedings, sighed.   
“Mr. Mendes, please rise before the court.”   
Shawn wasn’t sure that he could, a guttural sickness deep in his body made him queasy and his head spun. Rising shakily, Harvey tried to help him to his feet. Finally standing, Marcia Clark flicked her black bob from her face and looked Shawn dead in the eyes.   
“Mr. Mendes, you strike me as a very bright young man, with a very bright future ahead of him. It saddens me to see the young, intelligent likes of yourself before this court. But I have to stand by the facts of this case. The jury have found you guilty beyond a reasonable doubt, of two very serious charges. The files here before me tell me that you are a 20-year-old man, and a very bright one, with no doubt a good future ahead of you. It would be wrong of this court to deprive you of that future, but it would be remiss to forget that you have been found guilty of trafficking $12,000 worth of cocaine toward the Mexican border, and then upon being trapped by law enforcement, pulled a gun on your good friend Mr. Dallas. These are serious crimes for which there must be serious repercussions. These are charges for which you could face up to 25 years in prison. However, this is your very first run-in with the law, you do not seem like an overall threat to society, you seem like a good kid who has got lost in his own head, and obviously began to form bad associations. You have been tried as an adult, as the law supposes, and therefore must be punished as one. Many other judges would not be so lenient with you as I am, and you will not be granted the same leniency a second time.   
Shawn Peter Raul Mendes, you have been tried and found guilty before this court. I therefore sentence you to spend between 8 and 10 years at the Men’s Central Jail in Los Angeles County, with the possibility of parole yearly. You need some time, Mr. Mendes, to truly think about what you’ve done. Court is adjourned, we stand in recess.”   
The bang of Marcia Clark’s gavel was a prophetic sound. Like the ushering in of a new era, and the abrupt ending of another. The life of Shawn Mendes would never be the same. Feeling 10 feet underwater, he couldn’t hear Harvey Gettleman, his lawyer, babble something about “fair trials” and “appeal the process”, all Shawn could see was the emptying jury box and two stocky bailiffs marching his way. The wind had been knocked from his body, and he couldn’t get a breath. His chest tight and throat closing, he tried helplessly for breath. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead and upper lip, he felt clammy and cold.   
“Shawn, you’re ok.”   
His Mother’s voice.   
“It’s gonna be ok, Shawn. Control your breathing, remember your breathing, baby.”   
One gasp. One long gasp of air into his lungs, and out again in a long exhale.   
“Just keep breathing, baby. It’s ok.”   
The panic attack subsided as quickly as it had come on, leaving Shawn standing in an almost empty courtroom, with two bailiffs waiting patiently to cuff him.   
Karen Mendes stood behind the gate, not permitted through to touch her son, or even to look him in the eye and see he was alright. The bailiffs moved in.   
“Come on, fella, hands behind your back.”   
The cold steel of the handcuffs shook Shawn back into the real world as they snapped tight around his wrists. For the first time in her life, Karen Mendes could not help her son. Tears streamed involuntarily from her eyes as he was marched away.   
“I’ll see you soon, baby!” she called after him.   
Shawn looked back at his Mother, something he instantly regretted. He couldn’t even pretend to smile. Seeing his Mother upset, his heart broke instantly. He blinked rapidly, trying to stop the tears gushing from his big brown eyes, but to no avail. Tears fell down his face, hot, stinging his cheeks as his eyes burned. He coughed and spluttered, trying to suppress sobs, which hiccupped his shallow breathing.   
The dingy corridor with the strip lighting above felt miles long. Shawn could see the door at the end and knew that the prison van would be waiting. His heart thundered in his chest and the floor felt like it was giving way beneath him.   
The door opened, and the harsh gleam of sunlight burned Shawn’s eyes, until he realized it was the flashing of cameras.   
“Shawn, do you plan to appeal?”   
“Shawn, when will you appeal?”   
“How are you feeling, Shawn?”   
The faces clamoring over one another, looking at him so expectantly terrified him. The cameras flashed some more to capture the tears on his face. This would be the picture everyone would see in tonight’s late bulletin. Shawn could hear it now.   
Serves him right.   
He wants to act like a big boy, he can suffer the consequences like one.   
Sobbing little twerp isn’t so tough now.   
I hope he gets fucked in the ass daily.

The van door opened, and Shawn was escorted inside. The door was slammed on him, and he was alone, listening only to the muffled bustle outside the van door. The engine roared to life, and they began to move toward Shawn’s new life. The sound of the press got further and further away, and Shawn Mendes was resigned to silence. 

 

Delphine LaLaurie stood behind a steel gate, waiting for the new prisoner. Checking her wristwatch, she was anticipating him coming any minute. They were often disarmed when they saw a woman waiting to book them in, a weapon in her arsenal she had no problem using to its full advantage.   
“They’re arriving now, Delphine.”   
Deputy Chief of Security Henry Cavill stood to her right, gun cocked over his shoulder and a small smile on his lips. Delphine smiled;   
“I love newbies.” She said in her thick Southern accent. 

The door of the police van opened, and Shawn Mendes was escorted from both sides. In a cavernous underground tunnel, he was led from the van into what looked like a service door. The smell hit him instantly. Cheap disinfectant bleach barely masking the smell of sweat, feces and urine, all combined with the smell of human decay to create a heady, sickening mix. Led into a steel cage, the officers then left, and he stood cuffed, staring into the coldest eyes he’d ever seen.   
Her face showed no emotion, and her eyes bored into Shawn’s very soul. A small, rotund woman with dark brown hair scraped back into a bun, she seemed a formidable force, despite her diminutive size.   
“Morning.” She said in a husky Southern accent, a smile barely tracing on her lips; “I am Delphine LaLaurie, Chief of Security here. This is Mr. Cavill, my Deputy.”   
A colossal man with a strong, demanding stare looked at him through the bars.   
“We’re gonna treat you just as good as you treat us,” LaLaurie continued; “You give us no trouble, and we’ll have no reason to give you any. Do you understand?”   
Shawn nodded. Her eyes widened.   
“Do you understand me?” she growled. Shawn nodded;   
“Yes, Ma’am.”   
“Open the gates!”   
The door to the cage opened, and Cavill took two steps forward.   
“Stand over there.” Delphine demanded, and Shawn obeyed. Another officer seemed to appear from nowhere and undid the cuffs behind Shawn’s back. Shawn could hear Cavill’s gun in his hands and knew not to make any sudden movements.   
Delphine stood behind a long, steel table and threw a plastic tray on the table with a clatter.   
“Undress,” she said, “and place everything in this tray.”   
Shawn, exercising his new freedom, began to remove his grey suit jacket slowly, cautiously.   
“In your own fucking time, sweetheart!” she barked, making Shawn jump. He put the jacket in the tray.   
“Everything off?” he asked nervously, referring to the obvious fact that Delphine was a woman. She scoffed.   
“Sonny,” she said, her steel-blue eyes cold and her lips pursed; “You better stop playing with me right now, I’ve seen more crown jewels in here than the Queen of England, one more won’t send me into a fit of hysteria. Now un. Dress.” Her quiet voice chilled Shawn to the bone, and he took off his pink shirt. Quivering, he almost tripped as he took off his leather Cuban-heeled boots.   
Henry Cavill stood to Shawn’s right, gun-cocked in his direction.   
“YSL?” he said. Shawn turned to look at the man; “Your boots?” he said. Shawn nodded;   
“Yes, Sir.”   
“Nice.” Cavill said; “Eyes front, keep going.”   
Standing in his underwear, his young, pale body was shivering. Tears welling at his eyes, he removed his socks, the cold tiles freezing to his bare feet.   
“And the rest, we ain’t got all day.” Delphine snapped.   
Shawn pulled his white CK’s off and tossed them into the tray. Standing there, completely naked in front of three strangers, Shawn had never felt more humiliated in his life. Face burning hot, his throat tight and tears stabbing at his eyes, he could already see them stripping him, not only of his clothes, but of his dignity and personality.   
“Turn around, hands on your head.”   
“Raise your feet.”   
“Now squat.”   
The tears came on the last command, squatting toward the floor, completely nude, he lost it.   
“Are we finished yet?” he said softly.   
Delphine scoffed; “We’re finished when we’re finished, Sonny.” 

Naked, and stripped bare of his humanity and all worldly goods, Shawn stood shivering while his clothes were X-Rayed and booked in. Delphine turned to him.   
“You are rewarded with personal effects for good behavior, so you can wear your own clothes once you’ve earned them. Until then, you’ll have the Men’s Central Jail range, in orange.”   
Another guard appeared, a middle-aged black man with a piercing stare, who handed Shaun a bright orange jumpsuit and a white T-Shirt which reeked of stale sweat, and a pair of white soft soled Velcro sneakers.   
“Get dressed.” Delphine ordered. “Mr. Cavill, you go do your rounds. Bastien and I will take the prisoner from here.” 

In cuffs, Shawn was booked in by a desk sergeant, who gave him the title Prisoner X8998. Shawn knew that this was an effort to de-personalize him. In this place, he would be nothing more than a number.   
Led through the labyrinthine corridors, with heavy steel doors slamming behind him and flanked by the two armed security personnel, he felt more and more like he was being swallowed into the belly of the beast. The whole place reeked of decay and bodily fluid, thinly masked by cheap, nose-stinging disinfectant which made Shawn sick to his stomach.   
Finally, one door slammed behind him and he found himself in a large concrete room, with powder blue paint chipping off the walls and natural light poking in through the barred skylight windows. A decrepit vending machine stood at one end of the room, and seven or eight metal tables with chairs were bolted to the floor.   
“Sit down.” Delphine said, pointing to a table in the corner. Shawn did as directed, and abruptly, she left the room, leaving Shawn with the black guard, obviously “Bastien”.   
Moments later, the heavy steel door opened and Delphine re-appeared, followed by a tall, blond woman, dressed entirely in black. She strode into the room, a cool air of confidence, and her long, wavy hair bouncing. She gave a wry smile as she saw Shawn. Her black patent Manolo Blahniks striking off the floor, she approached.   
Sitting opposite him, Shawn could smell her rich, obviously expensive perfume.   
“I’m Fiona Goode.” She said; “I’m the warden here at Men’s Central Jail.”   
Shawn nodded; “It’s nice to meet you, Ma’am.” He whimpered.   
She raised her eyebrows, unused to courteous prisoners.   
“This,” she said gesturing to the room; “Is the visitation center. Visitors are allowed every second Tuesday to the maximum of an hour. This will be increased to weekly for good behavior, for bad behavior, they will stop altogether. Is that clear?”   
Shawn nodded; “Yes, Ma’am.”   
Wagging a red polished finger at him, she looked stern; “In my prison, I will not tolerate violence, impertinence, laziness or disobedience. You’ve been sent to me, and your ass will belong to me. My guards will not hesitate to enforce the rules I have set forth, and it’s in your own best interests to adhere to them. For good behavior, you will be rewarded with your set privileges, and for bad behavior…well, we won’t go there yet, shall we?”   
Shawn shook his head. Fiona Goode smiled.   
“You won’t have many dealings with me, I should hope.” She said, “But in dealings with my guards and staff, let’s make something clear. You do whatever they tell you needs done, make your bed, scrub your toilet. I don’t give a shit. In this prison, regardless of the crime you’ve committed, you will do hard time. If you misbehave, you will only make that time harder. Do you understand?”   
Shawn nodded again; “Yes, Ma’am.”   
Fiona checked her watch. “Well,” she said in her raspy voice; “I’m afraid you’ve missed lunch, but it’ll give you ample time to meet your cell-mates before dinner. Good day to you, X8998.”   
With a turn on her designer heels, and a waft of her distinctive perfume, Fiona Goode was gone, and Shawn ordered to his feet. 

It’s nothing like you see in the movies.   
Shawn had seen enough prison movies to expect open cell doors, people playing cards, mingling with one another, into each other’s cells. Men’s Central was nothing like that. Going into the East Tower Block, where Shawn learned he’d be staying for his sentence, it was four levels of closed cell doors, with people peering out from the small food hatches, eyes boring into the “newbie”.   
“New boy in the house!” came one voice. Delphine smacked her baton off the steel door, a sound which echoed throughout the gargantuan space.   
“Quiet down in there!” she barked.   
On the second floor, Delphine administered three sharp “raps” on the door of Cell #221.   
“Prepare for entry!” she called. Two hands emerged through the food hatch, and she cuffed them, before the door swung open.   
“This will be your new home for the time being.” She said to Shawn. “Get used to it, you don’t like it then go tell someone who gives a shit.”   
By the shoulder, Bastien put Shawn into the room, undid his cuffs, then the green steel door was slammed behind him. Terrified, he could hardly turn around to face whoever was in this cell with him.   
“Hi!” came a chirpy voice from behind him. Shawn turned to see a small, thin white boy, with a mop of sandy blond hair smiling at him. He looked like the least threatening person Shawn had ever seen.   
“Hey,” Shawn attempted to smile back.   
“My name’s Tom.” The boy said, in a lilting British accent which Shawn was not expecting; “Tom Holland’s the name.” He extended a hand, which Shawn accepted; “Shawn Mendes.” He said in a hushed voice. Tom leapt up onto the top bunk.   
“Sorry, mate.” He said, “I’ve got top bunk.”   
Shawn nodded; “That’s ok.”   
On the bottom steel bunk, Shawn saw two blankets and a rolled mattress waiting for him. As he began to try and make himself at home, Tom chatted. Unusually, Shawn welcomed the inane chatter, it was helping to keep him from an anxiety attack. This still didn’t feel real.   
“I’m so glad it’s someone nice they’ve got me in with,” he said, “Last cellmate I had was this terrifying Mexican who grunted at me all the time. I thought he was gonna murder me, man! So what you in for?”   
Shawn tried to downplay it; “Erm…drugs.”   
Tom cocked an eyebrow; “You don’t look much like a junkie? Pardon the expression, sorry that was rude, I didn’t mean…”   
“No, no. It’s ok.” Shawn said demurely; “I’m not a junkie. I was selling it.”   
“Ahhh,” Tom said, “Rough ride, man. I’m in a similar predicament. Done three years of a seven year stretch, lawyer says I’ll likely be out in another one.”   
Shawn nodded, trying not to think about the 8 to 10 stretch he was in for, which made him feel sicker than he already did.   
Looking around him, the situation was bleak. One rusty sink below the barred, frosted window. One toilet with not a hint of privacy and an untrustworthy looking roll of paper, a bunk bed and one shelf on the wall. The whole room was white brick, with that fluorescent strip light which was already giving Shawn a migraine.  
“So, where you from?” Tom asked; “If I’m prying, tell me to mind my own fucking business, mate.”   
On a normal day, Shawn would have, but today, at this vulnerable stage, it was just nice to have someone to talk to.   
“Nah, it’s cool. I’m from Toronto, in Canada. You?”   
“I’m from London originally, family moved to LA five years ago, so now I’m a citizen.”   
“Same.” Shawn said.   
Rolling out his tiny mattress, Shawn could see the stains of tenants’ past. It made him queasy, and it was tipping him over the edge. He felt the bile rise in his throat, the sweat pouring from him. He bolted to the toilet moments before a line of hot, yellow bile erupted from his mouth, clattering against the metal pot, which smelt unholy, further compounding Shawn’s sickness. His roaring gags made his stomach hurt as he spluttered into the pan.   
Dragging himself away from the pot, he leaned against the wall, groaning and grunting. Tom handed him the toilet paper; “Here you go, man. I know the feeling.”   
Shawn wiped his mouth and his forehead; “Thank you.”   
Suppressing his urge to cry again, Shawn coughed; “It just doesn’t feel real. Is this really happening?”   
Tom smiled a sideways “life is tough” smile. “I’m afraid so, cookie. It’s not that bad in here, really.” He said; “It takes some getting used to, but you’ll see in time. I’ll show you everything you need to know, you don’t need to be afraid! This is gonna be just like Shawshank Redemption but a lot more fun!”   
Shawn didn’t get the reference.


	2. Things Go Bump in the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shawn tries to adapt to prison life with Tom's help, but what dark secret is Tom hiding?

The soda tasted like home. Tom had offered Shawn a soda as they sat cross-legged on the bottom bunk, discussing the politics of prison. It was funny how something to simple as a Diet Coke could make him feel slightly better.   
“Obviously,” Tom said; “The food is fucking vile, but you learn not to say anything, or they’ll starve you. Meals are served communally in the mess hall. Everyone works during the day. Best jobs are kitchen and floors, you don’t wanna be in the workshop or laundry. Cell tosses are totally random and arbitrary, don’t try to look for a pattern to them, there isn’t one. I don’t wanna get my privileges taken away, so please don’t have contraband.”   
Shawn nodded; “What about gangs?”   
Tom looked puzzled; “I don’t know how to put it to you, man. They’re fucking scary sometimes. Just try to keep your head down and blend in. I’m lucky, they don’t want me, because I’m a little weak runt who has no defense except sarcasm, movie and pop culture references. They might want you, so try and stick with me, they might leave you alone.”   
Shawn didn’t like that “might”. 

A deafening electronic buzz sounded for dinner, and Shawn could hear cell doors opening. Filing out, Shawn and Tom joined the sea of prisoners heading toward the dining hall.   
“newbieindahouse!” Shawn heard, turning around, he could see himself as an orange blip in a sea of blue. He gasped. Tom smiled; “Yeah, mate. You don’t half stick out like a sore thumb.”   
“I thought people got to wear their own clothes?” Shawn asked.   
“Only for good behavior.” Tom said; “Do this lot look like good boys?”   
Shawn’s stomach dropped again. 

The Dining Hall was an enormous, high-ceilinged room painted gunmetal grey. Rows of benches sat bolted to the floor, and fluorescent lights flickered overhead.   
“There’s an order to this,” Tom said; “Main Block go to dinner first, then West Block, then South, and we go last.”   
Shawn nodded.   
If Shawn had had any appetite, it would have been vanquished at the mere sight of Men’s Central Jail food. On a bleak yellow plastic tray, a few spoons of slop were placed haphazardly in each section, and a bread roll on top.   
He swore he saw the food move. 

Lights out was 10pm every night. Tom and Shawn were back in their cells after dinner by 8:30. It had been the first glimpse of Shawn’s other neighbors. Most people had hardly looked his way, but there were a few hard stares in his direction on account of his “newbie” jumpsuit. He’d never felt more on edge.   
“Fancy a game of cards?” Tom asked. Shawn nodded;   
“Sounds great!”   
Playing cards made Shawn feel normal, and according to Tom’s advice, that was the best thing possible.   
“Do what you’d normally do, be as normal as you can. If you allow yourself to think like a prisoner, you’ll become institutionalized. I read about it once, it’s called self-fulfilling prophecy. What you think you are, you become.” 

When the lights shut off and Shawn climbed into his bunk, it began to feel real. There was no soft cotton bedding, just hard starched, scratchy blankets, cold oppressive steel under the thin mattress. There was no sound of his Mother watching Conan to help her fall asleep, no soft moonlight peeking through his window; just the inky blackness of nothing, with a pale orange light creeping under the steel door, and the occasional shadow of boots passing.   
That’s when Shawn knew it was real. He was in jail. And there was no way out. The tears came, and this time he didn’t bother to suppress them.  
Just this morning he was a free man, shaving his face at the bathroom mirror. His Mother was by his side, her eyes wide. “It’s gonna be ok.” She reassured him; “Harvey will get you a non-custodial deal, he promised he would. You’ll be back here by nightfall, warm in your own bed, and all this will be over.”   
It felt like a lifetime had passed since then. Now, Shawn Mendes lay in prison, sobbing himself to sleep. 

Shawn awoke to a stirring just beyond the door. In that dreamy realm between consciousness and sleep, he thought it was his Mother coming to check on him. The voice whispered.   
“Tom?”   
That’s when Shawn remembered where he was.   
“No, please. Not tonight.” He heard Tom groan from the top bunk. Shawn remained still, pretending to be asleep.   
“Move it.” The voice sternly commanded. It was a man’s voice.   
“Please…” Tom begged from his bed; “I’m exhausted.”   
There was a sigh, but certainly not of resignation. “You wanna see Mommy this week? Or shall we tell her you’re in the infirmary with a fractured fucking skull?! Now, I’m gonna give you ‘til the count of five…”   
“Ok, Ok, Ok.” Tom beseeched, clambering noisily from his bed; “I’m coming, Sir.”   
“Good boy.”   
With that, the cell door closed, and Shawn was alone again.   
He awoke to the door closing with a thunderous bang. His heart raced with the fright. Having to re-remember where he was, was a crushing blow to the young man, making his stomach lurch. He lay silent, eyes trying to accustom to the darkness.   
A peculiar sound disturbed him. It was like a sharp intake of breath. It happened again and was followed by two sharp exhales. Shawn dared to turn around, to try and find the source, but his eyes would not get used to the inky blackness. He could make out the toilet, and a large shadow next to it. The shadow moved, and he knew it was Tom. Tom was crying.   
“Hey,” Shawn croaked; “You ok?”   
Tom’s voice was small; “Y-yeah…it’s f-fine. G-g-go b-back to sl-sleep.” He whimpered.   
Shawn didn’t want to pry any more. 

“Let’s go! Up and at ‘em! Get outta those beds, you bunch of lazy fucks! Move it!”   
It was 6am. Nothing like an early start. For the third time, Shawn Mendes had to remind himself where he was, and it hurt like hell.


	3. Work For The Working Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shawn tries to fit in to prison life, and meets more of his fellow inmates, including the incorrigible Stiles Stilinski, and he gets ever closer to his cell-mate Tom.

Morning roll call was a tiresome process by which all prisoners were required to stand outside their cell doors until all checked and present. Then, breakfast began. Shawn felt his stomach rumble. He’d been too nervous to eat the whole day and night before, so by now he was ravenous, the pangs in his stomach making him dizzy.   
In the cavernous dining hall, greasy looking oatmeal was slopped into his bowl, three rashers of stringy, greasy bacon and a crusty bread roll on his tray. Regardless of the vile food, Shawn was starving and wolfed it down. The lukewarm, almost transparent coffee was sour to the taste.  
His stomach still rumbling, Shawn picked apart the bread roll which threatened to snap his teeth if eaten whole.  
Without warning, a young man, not much older than Tom and Shawn appeared at their side, scooting up next to Tom;   
“Hey, Tommy!” he said, hyperactively; “Did you hear what’s happening? They’re moving Derek here from South Block.”   
Tom’s eyes widened; “You’re fucking joking?!”   
Shawn looked on, curious. The hyper young man with the dark hair looked over; “Are we talking to you?!” he snapped. Shawn’s eyes immediately went to his oatmeal.   
“It’s cool,” Tom said; “This is my new cellmate, Shawn.”   
“Oh,” the young man said, “Sorry, bro!”   
He extended his hand across the table; “Stiles Stilinski!” Shawn shook his hand;   
“Shawn Mendes.”   
“Good to meetcha.” “Stiles” said with a boyish smile. His dark, cropped hair and upturned nose made him look more like a teenager than a grown man in jail.  
They got back to their discussion and Shawn tried not to listen in.   
“They’re moving him here for good behavior, apparently!”   
“Good behavior, my fucking arse! The man’s a maniac!”   
Tom was quiet this morning, and Shawn didn’t want to push the issue and make his only ally in this place mad at him, so he left him to it. However, he knew something was wrong when one person struck ice cold fear into Tom’s eyes. The baton walloping against the table made everybody jump and exclaim. Following the arm holding said baton, Shawn saw an officer. A young officer, with cropped dark hair and a piercing stare.   
“Morning, Tommy.” He said condescendingly; “Sleep well?”   
Shawn recognized the voice from the middle of the night.   
Tom nodded in the affirmative. The officer smiled a wicked grin. “Good,” he said; “Just wanted to tell you that sadly your Mom won’t be able to visit on Tuesday, she was arrested this morning on a morals charge. Guess you just never know with people, do you?”   
Sliding his baton off the table, the officer turned on his heel and left.   
Stiles’ brown eyes narrowed; “I’d love to put that nightstick so far up his ass and twist…”   
“Leave it, Stiles.” Tom sighed; “It’s not worth it.”   
“You know that cocky prick had something to do with that!”   
“Stiles, I know, but there’s nothing I can do about it. Just let it go.” 

“So, what’s that Stiles guy in for?” Shawn asked absent-mindedly. He and Tom had been assigned floors duty together and were currently mopping the gargantuan hallways of the East Block. The mop handles were only three feet long, and the 6’’4 Shawn had to bend almost halfway to mop the floor in the desired fashion, a “figure of 8”. It was backbreaking work, the muscles in his lower back screaming. The mud-colored water stunk of that cheap disinfectant.   
“Fraud,” Tom said nonchalantly; “Guy’s a genius with computers, got into a bunch of bank accounts, fleeced the lot.”   
Shawn’s brown eyes widened as he flicked a stray hair from his eyes; “Wow,” he said; “And yet he seems so nice.”   
Tom laughed; “He is nice, unlike a lot of them in here.”   
“Anyone I should stay away from?”   
Tom chuckled again; “Try…everyone. We’ve all done something that’s landed us in here.”   
“What about that guard at the table there?” Shawn asked, unable to help himself; “Who’s that?”   
Tom sighed, rolling his eyes; “That’s Deputy Jonas. For your own sake, stay away from him.” Looking around him, Tom hushed his voice; “You’ve met Chief LaLaurie and Deputy Chief Cavill?”   
Shawn nodded, flushing as he remembered them.   
“Well,” Tom continued, “That’s their golden boy. The last person to raise a complaint against him wound up spending four months in the infirmary.”   
Shawn’s jaw dropped.   
“Head down,” Tom said; “Keep working.” 

“Hello, baby!”   
Shawn’s mother’s voice was a comforting, yet heartbreaking sound. She sounded a million miles away.   
“Hi, Mom.” Shawn croaked.   
“How are you?” she asked; “I was trying all day yesterday, they wouldn’t let me through. Aaliyah misses you so much, she was devastated last night.”   
Shawn choked at the mention of his little sister; “God, I miss her too.”   
“How is the place?” she asked; “Are you OK?”   
“Yeah,” Shawn said; “I’m ok. I’m just trying to adjust.”   
His voice quivered, Karen knew he was lying.   
“Really?”   
He cracked; “I’m scared, Mom.”   
“I know, baby. Try not to be, it’ll be ok. I’m gonna come see you on Tuesday, the new lawyer says that’s ok.”   
“New lawyer?” Shawn asked, incredulously.   
“Yeah.” Karen said; “I fired Harvey, after telling us he’d get you off and gets you 10 years?! We’ve got a new one, she’s setting up an appointment to come see you, hopefully for Friday. She’s really good, Shawn. Very expensive.”   
“ONE MORE MINUTE!” boomed the guard’s voice.   
“Sorry darling,” Karen said; “I don’t wanna get you in trouble, I’ll go now. I love you. And don’t you worry about a thing, we’re gonna get you out of there.”   
“I love you too, Mom. Tell Aaliyah.”   
The line was dead. 

Raised in middle-class neighborhoods, Shawn had an atypical, even stereotypical view of prison. Every inmate would be buff hardmen with a chip on their shoulder, a gold tooth and a scorpion tattoo on their arm. So when a tall, effeminate man strode down the hallway beside them, long braids swinging from side to side, hand posed on hip as if he were on a Milan catwalk, Shawn was flabbergasted. He was unaware of his staring.   
“What the fuck you lookin’ at?!” he barked. Shawn was struck dumb.   
“S-sorry, nothing.”   
“Yeah, you bet nothin’, motherfucker.”   
When he was clearly out of sight, Tom began to chuckle under his breath.   
“What was that about?” Shawn asked, incredulous.   
“What? You’ve never seen a gay man before?”   
“Well…I…I just thought…”   
Tom smiled his boyish smile; “You’ve got some learning to do, kid.” 

The single word Shawn had been dreading was shower. You know what they say about showering in male prisons. Thus, his heart thundered when Tom told him the news.   
“It became a rule around here a couple of months ago that we freshen up before dinner. The Warden likes us clean after work.”   
Despite his misgivings, Shawn knew he had no choice. After his backbreaking work mopping, he could use a long, hot shower. Furthermore, he hadn’t showered since the previous morning, so he didn’t quite smell his freshest.   
Trooped in in groups of 30, each man was handed a hard, ragged towel.  
Tom and Shawn occupied a corner of the huge changing room, which stank of body odor. As they undressed, Shawn’s face flushed red as he recalled his humiliating strip search the previous day.   
“Don’t think about it,” Tom said; “Just do it.”   
Tom’s clothes fell to the floor and Shawn could see the rippling muscle he’d been hiding. His slight frame would never have betrayed such a body. Smooth vanilla skin, with bulging biceps and a rippling six-pack. Shawn was taken aback and slightly ashamed of his own body.   
Shawn was tall, thin but with a strong core muscle from his hockey and soccer playing. He’d always been a little too slight for football, and never strong enough for rugby. Slipping out of his clothes, he was further embarrassed by his own feeling of inadequacy. As he and Tom strolled toward the open showers, Shawn caught the snide sneers, stares and jeers of his fellow inmates as he scurried, towel bunched up over his groin.   
“Boy, you ain’t got nothin’ we ain’t gonna see!”   
“You see that ass, girls? I wanna bite it!”   
“Nice and smooth for the boys, huh?” 

Standing in his flip flops next to the shower head, Shawn could feel the icy chill of the water seeping in to his bare feet, sending shockwaves up his legs. Of course, hot water would be too much to ask. Bracing himself, he plunged himself under the icy faucet, eliciting a small screech as he did so, much to the delight of his fellow prisoners.   
Gasping as the frigid water cascaded down his lithe, pale body, soaking his dark hair, making every nerve ending on his body stand to attention.   
The smell of damp, cheap soap and that pervading odor of cheap bleach stung Shawn’s nostrils as he immersed himself in the frigid waters. He was never so relieved to see that the soap was in hand dispensers. Lathering himself in the sickly-sweet concoction, he bathed as quickly as possibly and grabbed his towel, vacating the showers at Tom’s heels. 

Shuddering back in his cell, Shawn watched Tom undress. The way he moved was lithe and elegant, almost dancer-like. His soft, smooth skin looked appealing to the touch, and his rippling abs made him seem more like a man than his boyish face did.   
Get it out of your head, Shawn.   
Tom applied his roll-on deodorant (aerosols were not allowed) and combed his hair with the rubber comb (a prison can’t be too careful). Shawn tried not to watch as Tom rolled deodorant on his inner thighs and pubic area, lifting his testicles and tracing a small line underneath. It was as he studied Tom’s smooth, round butt that he noticed the marks. Faint, purple bruises, six or seven in a row, in perfect formation.   
Teeth marks.   
Caught in his daydream, Shawn did not see Tom’s dark hazel eyes in the small plastic mirror, looking right at him.   
“Alright,” Tom said, snapping Shawn out of his daydream; “Stop the charade, what are you staring at?”   
“I-I w-wasn’t staring!” Shawn protested. Tom’s eyes narrowed as he turned around.   
“Mate,” Tom said; “I’ve been watching you for five minutes looking at me.”   
Tom advanced slowly toward Shawn, a coy smile playing on his lips; “Are you liking what you see?” he asked, his London accent a raspy whisper.   
A nod was the answer. 

“Shawn?!”   
He snapped to attention. Tom laughed. “You alright, mate?” he asked; “You’ve been staring blankly for about five minutes!”   
“Yeah, I’m fine.” Shawn said; “Just thinking.”   
Tom smiled a friendly smile; “Grab a soda, and spill.” 

Tom had a girlfriend on the outside. Cassandra was her name. He’d shown Shawn a picture of her, a crude, pixelated selfie of a beautiful young girl. However, whom he longed to see most was who he called “baby”. Tessa was a blue Staffordshire bull terrier whose picture was over twice the size of Cassandra’s.   
They sat, cross-legged on Shawn’s bottom bunk drinking sodas and chatting.   
“After my Father flew the coop,” Tom said; “My Mom and I lost everything. We were housed in Lincoln Heights, a total ghetto shithole. The only way we could afford to live was if my Mom “worked nights”. I didn’t want that for her, so I started to sell dope for some of the local boys, but I was caught and given seven years for it.”   
“Memories are sometimes all you have in here.” Tom said, with a melancholy expression. “You’ve got to hold on to them, no matter what happens to you in here. Hold on to the fact that one day, you’re gonna leave this place. That’s what keeps me holding on.”   
His hazel eyes looked up through tears, and he gave a smile; “Anyway, Mendes the Mysterious. What’s your story?”   
Shawn gulped a sip of Diet Coke.   
“Isn’t much to tell,” he said. “I was ordinary. There was nothing sad, or tragic in my life. Just a burning ambition. When we left Toronto to come here, I guess I thought I’d make something of myself. Maybe musically, maybe not. But all I knew was that I wanted more than what my parents had, more than the same, sad old story of leaving school, going to college, get a job, a family, a mortgage. I wanted to break that chain, do something…important. Then Cameron came along.”   
“Your boyfriend?” Tom asked. Shawn’s eyes widened.   
“How did you kn…”   
“Call it a sixth sense.” Tom said, looking proud of himself, “Anyway, tell me about him.”   
Shawn hung his head.   
“He swept into my life this one night. I was in a bar, underage of course, and he came up and started talking to me. The way he looked, the way he spoke, he just amazed me in every way possible. I wasn’t even sure I was…you know, gay. But he just totally knocked me out. I dunno about love at first sight, but if its possible, yeah, that’s what happened. The days passed, weeks went by and we got closer and closer. Even our fights were fun.”   
“What about the sex?” Tom asked, “If this guy’s as hot as you say?”   
Shawn smiled, his first real smile in days; “So good…we named it!” he whispered.   
Tom laughed; “So…what happened?”   
Shawn breathed deep to stifle tears;   
“He put me in jail.”


	4. "Just Like Butch and Sundance"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Flashback Chapter)  
> When Shawn and Cameron attempt to run away together, it doesn't quite go as planned.

The night was hot. A warm wind rolled off the Mojave Desert and swilled around the Los Angeles basin, blanketing the City of Angels in a swathe of still, sultry air. It was a surprising heat, for it was only mid-April.  
The text came at three minutes past midnight.  
Meet me outside in 5. Xx  
Shawn grabbed his boots and his denim jacket and crept out of his bedroom. He looked up the hallway, the living room lights were off. He could hear the faint sound of Conan O’Brien from his Mother’s room. The house was hot that night, every window opened to remove some of the humidity, and the faint hum of the ceiling fans all still on. In his socks, Shawn padded to the door, quietly unlatched it and stepped out into the night.  
No time after locking the door and putting his boots on, did Cameron appear. His car gleamed panther black in the hot L.A night.  
Shawn beamed when he saw him.  
“Get in, baby. Let’s go for a ride.” 

Laurel Canyon was always Shawn’s favorite spot in L.A. To drive up there and see it was to love it. The panoramic view of the City of Angels spread out before his feet like his own kingdom.  
The plan had been set for a month, but Cameron still wouldn’t let Shawn in all the way. They sat on the hood of Cameron’s car, both their brown eyes glinting in the pale moonlight.  
“Come on, Cam!” Shawn begged; “I can’t be a good sidekick if I don’t know what’s happening!”  
Cameron held Shawn’s chin between his fingers; “Look at me, do you trust me?” he asked in his deep Texan drawl. Shawn nodded;  
“Yes.”  
“Then trust me when I tell you that our lives are gonna change tonight. We’re gonna be back by sunrise, right here where we started. After tonight, we’re outta here. We have a shot, baby. We have a shot at a real life, not this. I’m talking about a real one. If you trust me, like I trust you, we’re outta here by this time tomorrow. So just chill, alright?”  
Shawn nodded, a warm wave of emotion washing over him, rising deep from within him.  
“I love you, Cam.”  
Cameron smiled in the darkness; “I love you too, baby.” 

The car shot like a bullet down the deserted Pacific Coast Highway, Aerosmith on the speakers. Shawn had his window down, his arm surfing on the hot night winds. Cameron bit his lower lip, his caramel skin glowing with excitement, and dark chocolate eyes aflame with desire. He put his hand on Shawn’s thigh and squeezed.  
“Just like Butch and Sundance, baby.”  
Shawn smiled, he didn’t get the reference. 

The desert mountains rose out of the night before them, silhouetted against the inky blackness of the night sky. Dust shot out in plumes as the black Mercedes pulled to a stop at the roadside.  
“I need a wizz and a smoke,” Cameron said.  
Shawn hadn’t been aware he was dozing off. Checking the time, it was 2:47am.  
“There’s Red Bull and snacks in the trunk.” Cameron said as he exited the car.  
Shawn trooped around to the trunk and popped it. He fished in the Wal-Mart bag and found Red Bull and Doritos, his favorite chips. The night had started to cool, and Shawn could feel his skin prickle with goosebumps. The blanket, sitting at a rakish angle looked inviting, so Shawn grabbed it.  
That’s when he saw what lay underneath. 

The silver barrel of the gun gleamed in the moonlight. Brutal and unmistakable.  
Shawn gasped as he realized what it sat atop. Despite being wrapped in cling-film and wax-dipped, Shawn knew what drugs looked like. And there were more packages here than he could ever have fathomed.  
“Cam?!” he called out, his throat dry; “What the fuck is this?!”  
Cameron did up his trousers and sauntered over, lighting a cigarette as he did so. He winked at Shawn.  
“You really have to ask?”  
Shawn was speechless; “Cam, we can’t do this.”  
Cameron sighed; “Baby, you were the one who wanted your life to change! Look at all this, this is everything you’ve ever wanted. Just a couple more hours and it’ll be gone. And we’re gonna have one hell of a life together. Please trust me on this. I need you, Shawn.” 

Shawn didn’t quite know why he’d pleaded Cameron to have the gun in the car with them, maybe he could feel safer if he could see it and know where it was. But every time he saw it lying there on the back seat, draped in the blanket, his heart beat in his ears, thunderous and deafening.  
The sirens had started about ten miles outside San Diego. Shawn’s stomach lurched and sweat broke out from every pore on his body as he saw the lights in the distance on the highway behind them.  
“Cool it, baby. They’re not for us.” Cameron said, keeping his eyes on the road.  
“Oh, Jesus please…” Shawn whispered, clasping his hands as if in prayer, sweat running down his back. He wiggled his toes and clutched at the St. Christopher on his neck, trying to ground himself to prevent a panic attack.  
Three police cars emerged from the black veil of night and raced down the Pacific Coast Highway behind them.  
Gaining on them, they signaled the car to pull over.  
Shawn began to hyperventilate; “Oh, shit. Oh, shit. Oh, shit. We’re done. Oh, Jesus.”  
“Not fucking yet!” Cameron said through gritted teeth, as he floored the accelerator, shooting down the highway.  
“Cameron, what the fuck are you doing?!” Shawn wailed as the three cars chased them. “Cam, please stop!” he yelled; “Cameron, STOP THE CAR!”  
The first shot rang out and struck the asphalt at their rear tire.  
Like a man possessed, Shawn leapt from his seat and grabbed the gun. His fingers wrapped around the cold steel Smith & Wesson, he took a deep breath.  
“Stop. The. Car.” 

“Put the gun down!”  
Shawn was hyperventilating as the officers approached, guns poised. There were five of them, their guns all trained at Shawn’s head. The sirens and headlights illuminated the desert, the smell of the sea and the sound of the waves crashing off the cliffs below pierced the deathly silence.  
He didn’t know quite what had happened. With Cameron on his knees in the dirt, arms outstretched in full surrender, Shawn had the gun trained directly at his head. Cameron’s dark eyes were pleading, tears in his eyes.  
“Shawn don’t.” He whimpered; “Please, don’t.”  
“Stop talking.” Shawn demanded; “This is all your fault.”  
“Come on,” said one deputy calmly; “Put the gun down, man. We can talk this through.”  
Cameron sobbed; “Please, Shawn. Listen to the man!”  
“You lying fuck!” Shawn roared, tears dripping down his face; “You said it would be ok, YOU SAID IT WOULD BE OK!”  
“It will be,” said the deputy; “Shawn, is it?”  
He nodded.  
“Shawn, listen. I know it doesn’t seem like it right now, but everything will be alright. We can stand here all night, but that ain’t gonna solve anything. We can go down to the station, grab a cup of coffee and talk. That’s all I wanna do, is talk to you. But we aren’t gonna get anywhere like this. So please, Shawn. Put the goddamn gun down.”  
Shawn dropped to his knees on the ground, letting the gun fall, his body racked with sobs.  
“Oh, God, I’m sorry!” he wailed.  
Shawn Mendes and Cameron Dallas were arrested as the dim orange glow of dawn broke out on the horizon of the Pacific Ocean.


	5. Ebbtide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The waves of terror begin to roll in as Shawn learns more about the goings-on of life in prison, of the terror and torture inflicted upon the inmates, Tom in particular.

It was an excruciatingly hot day in August when Melissa McCall, a local nurse had decided to go for a jog in Beacon Hills Reserve. A heavily wooded nature reserve in Northern California, bordering the town of Beacon Hills, it was a dark and forbidding place, even in broad daylight. Despite being forbidden at night, it was a well-known lover’s lane.  
Jogging up the winding, darkly canopied paths, Melissa McCall had first spotted the white form in the underbrush from a distance and thought it to be discarded rubbish. Only upon jogging ever closer, did the form begin to take shape.  
Her screams could be heard for miles.  
The young woman had been beautiful in life. In death, she was torn to pieces, to the point she could only be identified by her dental records. Originally thought to be an animal attack, post-mortem results had shown she’d been raped and strangled before being savagely torn from stem to stern.  
Four more bodies turned up in Beacon Hills Reserve over the course of that summer, leaving local authorities baffled. The state of California, and the town of Beacon Hills was gripped by fear, in the clutches of a madman known only as the “Wolf of Beacon Hills”.  
In late November, as the trees were stripped bare, and the ground crunched with fallen, dead leaves, did the fear subside. One anonymous tip off, had broken the case.  
Derek Lucien Hale, a local resident, living in a dilapidated Victorian house only half a mile from the reserve, was arrested for the murders. In his basement, a chamber of horrors awaited detectives. Every implement from axes to scythes and butcher’s knives were found, and blood matching all five victims was traced to the cement floors, walls and even the ceiling.  
After one of the quickest trials in Californian history, and massive media attention, Derek Hale was found guilty and sentenced to death by lethal injection. The judge had said at sentencing;  
“It is the only punishment fit for a person as inherently and unfathomably wicked as yourself. May God have mercy on your corpse.” 

The yard of Men’s Central Jail was full, the September evening air pleasantly warm. The sun was beginning to set, casting a pale orange glow over the sandy yard. Some played touch football, others walked, meanwhile three stood in a corner talking. Those three were Shawn Mendes, Tom Holland and Stiles Stilinski.  
“I cannot believe they’re doing this!” Stiles said, panic in his big, brown eyes.  
“How could they take him off death row?!” Tom scoffed; “He’s a beast!”  
“Apparently, his mental state cannot be ascertained beyond a reasonable doubt.” Stiles said, in a mock-official voice; “Bullshit!”  
In Men’s Central, South Block was where the worst of the worst were kept, including, on the basement floor, the men condemned to death. This had formerly included Derek Hale.  
Their yards were separate, all four blocks fenced off from one another, for fear of a prison riot. The East Block faced the South Block yard.  
“Just knowing that he could be right over there,” Stiles said; “It’s unnerving. I’m losing sleep, I’m gonna lose my hair soon!”  
Tom laughed, it was impossible to take Stiles Stilinski seriously.  
Shawn was puzzled; “But,” he said, “just because you guys are from the same town, doesn’t mean he’ll have anything against you. Does it?”  
Stiles rolled his eyes; “Wake up and smell the maple syrup, Canada! You don’t know shit about this man, or our town, therefore you can’t exactly comprehend what’s gonna happen to me if that sick mofo gets his hands on me!”  
The ear-splitting horn sounded. Exercise time was over.  
As the boys made their way back inside, Shawn glanced toward the gates of South Block. There stood a man, cut off from the rest of the inmates. He stood motionless, glowering through the gates. Shawn could feel their eyes lock. From such a distance, it was impossible to tell, but Shawn could swear he felt the malevolence in the man’s glare. Shivering, Shawn turned away. 

Starving, Shawn wolfed down his salt pork and mashed potatoes so fast he gave himself indigestion. Belching under his breath, he hadn’t heard or noticed the commotion begin behind him. Only when a meal tray came crashing down in front of him, scattering food debris and water everywhere, did he jump to attention. Tom’s eyes widened as the fight broke out. A white skinhead and a young Hispanic launched at one another just a foot behind Shawn’s back. He sat, frozen to the spot, as blood burst from the nose of the Hispanic.  
“Fuck you, you greaser bastard!”  
All at once, four others had joined the affray, landing punches and elbows wherever necessary.  
The whole dining room shook as four warning shots were fired into the ceiling. Shawn ducked for cover as plaster fell from above. A hushed silence fell over the crowd, and the four men were pulled from each other. Deputy Chief Cavill grabbed the skinhead and plunged his nightstick deep in the man’s groin with a grotesque “thump!”. The guy screamed, doubling over in pain.  
Administering one almighty kick to the side of the head with his heavy leather jackboot, Cavill then cuffed the skinhead before dragging him to his feet. Five other guards administered similar justice upon the remaining four fighters.  
Dragging the skinhead off, Cavill turned to face his silent audience.  
“Anyone else want some of what this lousy fuck’s gonna get?! Didn’t think so. Get back to your food!” 

Shawn was almost paralyzed. He couldn’t believe what had just happened.  
“Is that…a regular thing?” he asked incredulously. Tom and Stiles grinned.  
“Look at the ceiling, you tell me.” Stiles said.  
Looking up, Shawn could see the ceiling and tops of the walls were riddled with bullet holes. 

“The outbreak was dealt with swiftly, and nobody else was hurt, Ma’am.”  
Fiona Goode raised an eyebrow; “And their punishments?”  
Cavill smiled; “Swift. A week in solitary for each of them, and bruised fruits for a few days.”  
Fiona grinned; “I’ve always loved your approach to justice, Henry. Delphine and Richard will be bringing me my prisoner soon, won’t they? I have to leave promptly, I have a dinner engagement.”  
“That they will, should be here any minute.”  
Fiona rattled her nails across her cigarette case, before lighting a Marlboro Gold, blue smoke billowing around the huge, pristine office.  
“Grand. Go on home, Henry. Don’t let Delia get worried.”  
Henry nodded with a boyish smile; “Sure thing, Fiona. See you tomorrow.”  
Blowing smoke from her nose, Fiona waved half-heartedly. 

Three raps on the office door alerted Fiona that Delphine LaLaurie was at the door.  
“Come in!” Fiona rasped between drags of her cigarette.  
Delphine and another two guards escorted the shackled and muzzled Derek Hale into the soft carpeted office. His icy green eyes bored into Fiona.  
“Sit him down.” She said.  
When Derek was sat opposite her and cuffed to the chair, Fiona instructed that his mouth-guard be removed.  
Delphine stood in the corner of the room silently.  
“Warden.” Derek said in his gruff voice, his expression stony.  
“Tell me, did you do as I instructed?”  
Derek sighed; “DeBlasio and Rolf are going to attempt an escape on Halloween night. They say that they have access to knives. I don’t think their plan is much more sophisticated “Good evening, Mr. Hale.” Fiona said with a smile.  
than that.”  
Fiona laughed; “I see. And their alleged access to the prison blueprints? Did you obtain access to them?”  
“Yes, I did. They’re from 1974. The year before the extensions were built, and the old air ducts sealed and replaced by central heating.”  
“And they don’t know that?”  
“Of course not.” Derek said, a cruel smile playing at his lips.  
Fiona loved that smile. On the moments when Hale would let loose, and those plump, pink lips would split into an evil smile. She pictured his lips on hers, those eyes open and boring into her own. Those rough, manly hands sweeping over her body, grabbing her hair and forcing her down to his groin. That same smile playing at his lips as she filled her mouth with his engorged manhood. He was rough, rugged and brutish. Just the way she liked.  
Back in the present, Fiona lit another cigarette.  
“And that’s all?”  
Derek nodded.  
“Very well, Mr. Hale.” She said; “You’ll be moved to East Block last thing tomorrow evening, as per our agreement.”  
“Warden,” he said respectfully, another cruel smile playing upon his lips, and a devilish glint in his eye; “Could I ask just one more favor?”  
Fiona’s eyes widened; “On top of sparing you from the lethal injection? And moving you into a new block?”  
“What you’ve done for me is more than I could have hoped, but there is just one small matter I’d ask respectfully that you see into? In return for more intel, of course.”  
Fiona smiled, her voice a raspy whisper; “Put your cards on the table.” 

The night drew in blacker than ebony, with a howling wind, signifying that Summer was truly at an end. Shawn had received mail to the cell, stating that he would be collected by a guard at 10:30 for a meeting with his lawyer. He got a slight rush, remembering his conversation with his Mother.  
We’re gonna get you out of there. 

The changing of the guard took place at 8:00am and 8:00pm on a four days on-four days off basis, with day and night shift rotating bi-weekly.  
Nicholas Jerry Jonas enjoyed the nightshift. More motivated at night, and power mad on Red Bull, he felt energized and in control. As Senior Night Watchman, he took delight in doing the rounds and checking in on certain prisoners. Tonight would be no different. 

Shawn and Tom played cards again. Sitting on Shawn’s bunk, they were in a spirited game of “Shithead”, a game Tom said was popular in Britain, but Shawn was pretty sure Tom had made it up, as the rules seemed to change in his own favor. Shawn didn’t mind, it was a welcome reprieve from the gritty life he was trying to become accustomed to.  
The hatch on their door opened with a bang, and the intense brown eyes of Nick Jonas stared through. Those eyes struck ice-cold fear in Tom’s stomach.  
“Mommy’s been released without charge,” he said in a self-satisfied manner. Tom’s eyes lit up.  
“Really?! Thank you!”  
Nick smiled; “Naturally, I expect a better “thank you” than that. I’ll see you later.”  
Tom’s eyes dropped; “Yes, Sir.” He mumbled.  
With that, Jonas was gone.  
Shawn thought it best to say nothing. 

The cell door opened in the dead of night, and Nick Jonas stood silhouetted menacingly in the darkness.  
“Move it, boy.”  
Tom climbed down from his bunk, pulled on his jumpsuit and followed Jonas.  
Shawn lay awake as the door slammed shut, shivering in the freezing night air. 

The prison workshop was a terrifying place at night. A cavernous, tunnel-shaped room with long wooden benches with vices attached. The only light streaming in through the dirt-filmed windows, from the floodlights outside. The smell of sawdust permeated Tom’s nostrils as he was forced to strip, Jonas’ flashlight trained on him.  
He shivered as his clothes fell to the ground, and Jonas thumbed his crotch through his khakis.  
“Get on the table. Slowly.”  
Tom’s hands were cuffed to the vices on either side of the workbench, effectively spread-eagling him.  
Securing his flashlight in a vice, Jonas climbed on top of Tom, straddling the naked boy underneath him.  
“Look at me like you’re a virgin.” He growled.  
Tom flushed red with humiliation as he attempted a look of innocence. Nick laughed, before spitting in his face.  
“Fucking filthy little slut, just like your whore mother.”  
Tom’s eyes filled with tears, much to the delight of Jonas.  
“Oh, we’re gonna have some fun tonight.” 

Shawn lay awake, still shivering in his cell. He’d been counting roughly in his head, it had been at least an hour Tom had been gone for. He was worried for him, who knew what that creep Jonas could be doing to him?  
He remembered seeing the teeth marks in Tom’s buttcheeks and knew they weren’t imagined. His heart hurt to think of what could be happening to him. 

Tom’s legs were above Jonas’ shoulders. Lubricated with only a palm of spit, Tom had screamed in silent anguish as Nick entered him, the walls of his anus widening with the unexpected intruder. He’d been warned before that if he screamed, he’d be put in solitary for a month. So he lay there, face contorted in agony as Nick Jonas pounded deep inside him, grunting and lusting. Sweat dripped from him as he spread Tom’s legs above his head.  
“Who’s your Daddy?” he grunted.  
Tears dripped down Tom’s face as he thought of Cassandra, her long, flowing black hair. That beautiful, white smile. Those perky little rosebud tits and her smooth alabaster skin.  
Jonas’ hand slammed down on Tom’s throat; “Who’s your fucking Daddy?” he growled.  
Tom choked, spluttering, his eyes begging: “Y-y-y-y…”  
“I can’t hear you.”  
“You are…” Tom wheezed, and Jonas’ grip loosened; “You’re my Daddy.”  
“You like Daddy’s cock?”  
Tom nodded, tears streaming down his face; “I like Daddy’s cock.”  
He could no longer feel Nick’s balls slapping against his ass, and knew he was about to come.  
“Oh, fuck…oh, fuuuuuuuck!” Nick grunted, as he pulled out and spewed ropes of hot, creamy come all over Tom’s body and face.  
Nick wheezed and grunted as his thunderous heartbeat began to slow. Collapsing on top of Tom, he lay for a second, his muscled, sweaty body dominating the young prisoner.  
“You t-tell…anyone…and I’ll kill you.”  
Always the same pillow-talk. 

Shawn was in that beautiful realm of slipping between consciousnesses as the cell door opened and awoke him, much to his annoyance. Then he remembered that it was Tom. Thrown back into the cell, the door was slammed and Tom stood for a minute, unaware that Shawn was awake. He stumbled in the darkness to the sink, where he threw off his clothes and began to throw water on himself, scrubbing hard with his hands.  
“Tom,” Shawn croaked; “Are you OK?”  
Shawn could hear the muffled whimpers of Tom’s self-loathing.  
“I just want him off me, the smell of him. Vile, filthy pig!” he whispered.  
Shawn climbed out of bed, the freezing concrete on his bare feet making his legs wobble.  
“Tom, come on, man.” He whispered; “Please talk to me, let me help. Sit down.”  
He guided Tom to the bed, where he collapsed in a fit of sobs. Shawn sat next to him, patting his shoulder delicately. “It’s gonna be ok.”  
Tom sat up and threw himself into Shawn’s arms; “It’s…” he choked; “f-for my m-mum…not…for me…you get that, right?”  
“Yeah of course!”  
They hugged passionately.  
“And d-don’t you g-get any ideas. I’m straight, mate.” Tom laughed through his tears. Shawn playfully punched Tom’s arm and laughed too.  
“Well, you are naked, and I’ve kinda got a woody.”  
Soon, they were in fits of giggles. Tom fell asleep in the crook of Shawn’s arm, warm and safe for the first time in forever.


	6. Ebbtide's Revenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shawn gets a promising new lawyer. Cordelia Foxx believes in his innocence, and is determined to set him free. The past comes back to haunt Stiles as he gets a new cellmate.

6am came too soon, and Shawn stood exhausted at morning roll call. Tom glanced across at him, a sincere smile on his face. There were no words needed.  
After breakfast, Shawn was assigned to laundry detail and buddied up with an older black man named Monty, who walked with a limp and talked in an old-fashioned Southern drawl.  
“Now,” he said; “All’s you gotta do, is fold this here laundry when they come out of the dryers and put them in the carts o’er here. Uniform with uniform, towel with towel, and so forth. Easy-peasy. We’ll attend to the washers and dryers.”  
Shawn nodded and began his mundane task. Simple though the task was, the heat and humidity in the cramped basement laundry was overwhelming, and Shawn broke sweat not ten minutes in.  
At 10:30 prompt, Deputy Chief Cavill approached.  
“X8998, you’ve got your meeting, move it out.”  
Cuffed and marched into another part of the prison he didn’t recognize, Shawn was led into a small, windowless room, with only a two-way mirror and a desk inside. He’d watched enough cop shows to recognize an interrogation room. Cuffed to the bolted-down chair, Cavill told him his lawyer would arrive any minute.  
The door swung open and a young, blonde woman walked in. She was not the least bit what Shawn was expecting. Tall, with pale, almost translucent skin and long straight platinum hair. She smiled warmly.  
“Shawn Mendes? I’m Cordelia Foxx, your new lawyer.”  
She shook his hand despite its shackles. Her smile was endearing, and her slight lisp softened her voice. She took the seat opposite him.  
“I’m afraid we don’t have much time together, so I wanna cut to the chase. Cameron Dallas, your so-called “partner in crime”, was sentenced this morning.”  
Shawn was gleeful; “How long did he get? Longer than me?”  
Cordelia looked crestfallen; “Four years.”  
Shawn’s stomach lurched; “How the fuck is that fair?! He was the one who organized it!”  
“He’s pinning the blame on you. You must have heard that in his testimony at your trial. You were the one with an untraceable gun in your hand when police caught you.”  
“It was his!” Shawn protested; “He already had it in the car!”  
“Shawn,” she said calmly; “May I call you Shawn?”  
“Call me whatever the hell you want, but just get me out of here!” Shawn pleaded.  
“I will,” she soothed; “But it will take time. I wanted you to be prepared because Mr. Dallas is being sent here, too.”  
A wave of nausea washed over him. This couldn’t be happening.  
“I’m aware of the particulars of your case,” she continued; “And your Mother has briefed me very well on you and your history of anxiety. I know his presence here could trigger you, so I’m going to advocate for you both to be kept in separate blocks, but that power doesn’t rest with me unfortunately. But, you want some good news?”  
Nothing could be worse, Shawn thought, before deciding to keep it to himself.  
“Harvey Gettleman, your old lawyer, is a very competent man, but not when it comes to criminal trials. His experience is as a civil litigator. My experience is all criminal cases. And the important thing is, Shawn. I believe you. And I am going to get you a re-trial, with a jury who will also share my belief in you. I can’t promise you a non-custodial deal, but I will get you a far lesser sentence, six months to a year tops, and maybe a year or so probation.”  
Shawn scoffed; “And how will you do that? Get Cameron to confess to it all and get himself 20 years?”  
Cordelia smiled; “Luckily, I don’t have to. The story he told in court is bullshit, and I can prove it. And I can put enough holes in the prosecution’s story to sink it ten times over. And you and I have the ultimate upper hand.” She hushed her voice, to a dramatic effect; “Because I know where those drugs and that gun came from. All I need is the proof. Trust me, Shawn. I will get you out of here.” 

The shower, for all its heinousness and frigidity, was welcome after the backbreaking day in the laundry. Shawn luxuriated in the freezing water, allowing it to drench and momentarily soothe his screaming muscles. His hands dry and cracked from the cheap laundry detergent, Shawn used more soap than necessary to try and mend them. He’d grown accustomed to the feeling of eyes on him in the showers, and tried to give them no thought, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone’s eyes were constantly on him, surveying him.  
As he dried alongside Tom, he saw Stiles bounding toward them, eyes aglow with excitement.  
“Oh my God!” he said with a flap of his hands; “You’ll never guess what’s happening!”  
“What?!” Tom said, with mock-excitement. Stiles’ eyes narrowed;  
“You know sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, right?”  
Tom rolled his eyes; “Get to the point, Stiles.”  
“After my petitioning the warden…we’re getting a Fright Night for Halloween!” his gawky smile was infectious.  
“What’s a fright night?” Shawn asked.  
Stiles leapt into the air; “Are you serious, Canada?! Its only, like, the greatest night of the year! We get movies! I’m talking Friday the 13th, Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Halloween!”  
Tom gasped; “John Carpenter or Rob Zombie?”  
“Duh…Carpenter!”  
Tom punched the air.  
“You got that from petitioning the warden?” Shawn asked. Stiles made a face.  
“Yeah, well, more like badgering actually.”  
“Is that safe, you think? To show those kinda movies?” Shawn asked; “I mean, with regards to some people in here, they might get ideas?”  
Stiles rolled his eyes; “Who are you, my Grandmother? What exactly will they do? Try to stab you with a Spork?” 

Henry Cavill’s heart gladdened to see his wife’s white Prius in the driveway before him. The lights were on low, making the lawn of their Glendale tract house shine with a pale beige ambience. Taking his boots off at the door, his feet ached after the long week of 12-hour shifts.  
“Hey!” Cordelia called from the kitchen. She appeared, a large glass of Rose wine in her hand. Her feet were bare, and her blouse undone just enough to get Henry excited. He smiled.  
“Wine already, Mrs. Cavill?”  
She smiled a girlish smile; “It’s Friday, and you have a weekend off, for once.” She approached sexily, giving him a peck. He held her close, inhaling her Ghost perfume. Tousling her blond hair, he whispered;  
“Fancy a Chinese and Casablanca?”  
“Sounds great.” She whispered back.  
The phone rang a shrill screech, making them both jump.  
“Jesus!” Cordelia muttered as she answered; “Hello?”  
“Delia, darling!”  
The voice was unmistakable.  
“Hello, Fiona.”  
“I hear,” she croaked between drags of her cigarette; “That you were here today, talking to one of my prisoners?”  
Cordelia sighed; “Yes, I was talking to one of my clients.”  
“I’m aware of that!” Fiona snapped; “What I am unaware of, is why that was not cleared with me beforehand.”  
Cordelia smiled cheekily; “I had the authorization of the Deputy Chief of Security.”  
“Ha!” Fiona barked; “Tell your darling husband that if he undermines me one more goddamn time, he’ll be on his ass quicker than mustard on a tie at a county fair. And we both know you can’t afford the mortgage of that cute little prairie house on your measly retainers.”  
“If that’s all there is, Fiona? Any other ugly little comments you’d like to make?”  
“I think we’re done,” Fiona gloated; “But don’t you dare talk to one of my prisoners again without my express permission.”  
At the end of phone calls, most people tell their children; “love you, bye.” Instead, Cordelia Foxx got an impersonal “click” and the crisp buzz of white noise. Tears welled in her big, brown eyes.  
“Let me guess,” Henry said, walking through with a beer in his hand, and his shirt unbuttoned to the waist. “Mommie Dearest?”  
Cordelia nodded; “Fucking bitch.”  
“I don’t know why you let her get you like this,” Henry said approaching her; “She’s not worth it.”  
“Every corner I seem to turn in my life,” Cordelia whimpered; “She’s right there to bitch-slap me right back.”  
Henry sighed; “Listen, missy. Chinese is on its way, Mister’s home for the weekend, forget about that bitch…I mean, my beloved boss.”  
Henry smiled his devastating handsome smile, and Cordelia was putty in his hands. She smiled and snuggled into his broad, hairy chest. 

It had been officially the last day of Summer, and the night drew in cold, with a still air that seemed to permeate the very skin of the guards in the watchtower. Looking out over the deathly silence, all seemed to be well.  
Stiles Stilinski lingered in the shower a little longer than usual, talking hyperactively about his “Fright Night” success. The miniature TV’s in each cell were never used, other than for local events of interest or news about the prison. Fiona Goode did not approve of criminals lounging around watching television.  
Standing in just a towel, Stiles spoke to a group of Southside Creepers, who looked depressed by his mere presence.  
“Aren’t you guys excited?!” Stiles asked, his eyes gleeful and hands widely gesturing.  
“I don’t know why this guy doesn’t get punched more often?!” someone called from the back.  
Panic registered in Stiles’ eyes, as Bastien, the guard on duty poked his head around the door.  
“Stilinski, you’ve got ‘til I count ten to get your scrawny ass dressed, or I’ll frog-march you to dinner butt naked.”  
Stiles was dressed by the count of eight. 

The cell toss came just before the dinner bell. Shawn and Tom were cuffed outside their cell while it was torn through with a fine-tooth comb by Delphine LaLaurie and one of her minions, a gruff, middle-aged man. They tore up mattresses, behind the shelf, under the sink and even down to the boys’ underwear.  
“It’s clean.” Delphine said grudgingly, rather obviously hoping there’d be something so she could dispense some “justice”.  
Allowed back in, Shawn couldn’t believe the mess. They’d almost torn the place apart.  
“Is this normal?” he asked; “To throw our stuff everywhere?”  
Tom nodded; “Nothing’s “yours” in prison. They say privacy is danger.” 

The dining hall was abuzz that Friday night with chatter and the clattering of trays. Shawn was trying to figure out what he was about to eat. It looked like some kind of casserole, with stringy meat and pulp-like vegetables.  
These were the parts that made it feel irrevocably and viscerally real. The fact that it was not his mother’s homemade chicken and leek pie, with the honeyed parsnips that he loved. That Aaliyah wasn’t nagging his ear off to let her hear one of his songs, or that he couldn’t sit and listen to his Johnny Cash records in the comfort of their own den. No, there was no comfort to be had in Men’s Central Jail. Damp, dingy concrete and rusted iron doors slamming, and the omnipresent sound of keys rattling and chains clanking were the only creature comforts. Shawn shrunk in the gargantuan dining room. This whole prison thing was beginning to feel all too real. 

After dinner, Stiles was escorted back to his cell by Lesley, a butch female guard who maintained a steely reserve as Stiles yapped the entire journey.  
“I don’t know if they’re gonna play the movies sequentially or if they’re just gonna roll them out in any order, but I think they should do it chronologically you know? Like, like a timeline of horror!”  
Finally at #113, the guard looked relieved.  
“You’ve got a new cellmate.” She said off the cuff. Stiles looked baffled;  
“Who?!”  
The guard sighed; “I’m sorry if it’s not to your liking, but you’ll be sharing a cell with Marilyn Monroe.”  
Stiles grimaced; “Sharing a cell with a dead woman? Not cool, man!”  
“Just get in.” she huffed as the door swung open.  
Stiles was met with the icy, intense green eyes he’d feared for three long years.  
He turned to run back, but the rusty off-green door slammed in his face with a damning finality. His whole body felt limp as he realized that standing behind him, not four feet away was Derek Hale.


	7. Unforgiven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The past begins to repeat itself with damning consequences for everyone involved.

Derek Hale stood to his full 6’’3, his icy, luminous green eyes slicing through Stiles, who stood with his back against the door.   
“Stiles Stilinski.” He said gruffly, a sense of satisfaction in the words which made Stiles even more queasy. He waved with a false, sickly smile,   
“Hi, Derek.”   
Derek’s stony expression didn’t shift, and he eyed Stiles like a wolf eyeing its prey. Folding his arms, a slight smile played at his lips.   
“I can’t kill you here because we have neighbors.” He said, making Stiles’ heart thunder in his chest. “Just know that your days are numbered.”   
“I’m not afraid of you.” Stiles said strongly, inviting a look from Derek which made him instantly regret it. The “Wolf of Beacon Hills” took two steps forward.   
“Ok, maybe I am.” Stiles whimpered.   
Derek grabbed him by the throat, pinning him to the wall, his pale eyes unmoving.   
“I’ll scream for the guards, Derek!” Stiles choked desperately; “They’ll put you right back where they found you!”   
Derek laughed, a wicked sneer; “Oh, I don’t think so. Because if you do, Stiles. I’ll tear you limb from limb with my bare hands, and it won’t be very pleasant, I promise.”   
“Doesn’t sound it.” Stiles coughed.   
“You just listen to me and don’t interrupt.” He lowered his voice to a sinister sneer; “I’ve waited a long time for this moment. I bet you thought you were really clever, turning me into the cops. Figuring out that case, when even your Daddy couldn’t catch me. A testimony behind a screen in court, you didn’t think I’d know instantly who you were? I’ve had a lot of time to think about all the things I’d do to you in return but would never get the chance to. But now you’re here in front of me, and you can’t run away. Do you really think a hyperactive little bastard like you has a chance against me, now?”   
Stiles gulped, Derek’s big, rough hand still tight around his throat. Derek smiled a nasty grin, his eyes glowing with malicious delight.   
“Are you gonna kill me?” Stiles whispered.   
Derek laughed in his face; “One day. But not today, I’ve got a lot of plans for you, Stiles. You better be ready.” 

“So what’s with this Derek guy?” Shawn asked as he and Tom sat eating salted peanuts in their cell; “Why does Stiles seem to afraid of him?”   
Tom shook his head; “Beacon Hills is a tiny little hamlet north of here. Nothing ever happens there, so when something does, especially something as terrible as what Derek did, it sticks out in people’s minds. I reckon I’d be the same if I’d grown up knowing a serial killer. Would put anyone on edge.”   
“Maybe its not that bad?” Shawn said, “Maybe they might get along. Growing up in the same place, they might have something in common.”   
Tom glowered at Shawn.  
“Must you Canadians always be so bloody diplomatic? Shawn, what you don’t understand is that Stiles is the reason Derek is in jail, and Derek knows it.”   
Shawn’s face lost all expression; “Oh, shit.”   
Tom turned around on the bottom bunk, and began to unravel the story for Shawn, an avid listener. 

The punch landed with a sinister crack, and Stiles’ nose erupted in a pool of blood. A burst of red dots appeared in his eyes as Derek’s fist connected with his face. The scream of pain didn’t come, his mouth stuffed full with the underwear Derek had just forced him to remove in front of him. The other punches came quickly against his bare body, merciless, sportsmanlike punches, winding Stiles and bludgeoning his pale body with deep, purpling bruises. The pain was unspeakable, his muscles screaming and body convulsing against the pitiless attack. Tears streamed from the younger man’s eyes as the “Wolf-Man” reigned a bloody assault, all the while Stiles’ hands were meticulously bound to the top bunk with a blanket. Bleeding and sobbing, his eyes pleading, Stiles received a hard audience. Derek merely laughed at him.   
“You don’t have all that mouth now, do you?”   
Without a word, and looking Stiles dead in the eye, his hand reached down, and cupped the younger man’s balls, without a word, he slowly began to pull downward. Stiles screamed through his blanketing gag, the muscles in his neck bulging. His eyes screwed shut, he silently begged Derek to stop. A maleficent smile played at the corners of the “Wolf-Man’s” lips as he pulled ever further before twisting. Stiles’ voice was hoarse, though he’d not said a word. He heaved and spluttered through his gag as Derek let go, a searing pain now ripping through Stiles’ lower abdomen.   
He shook his head forcefully, babbling rapidly against his gag as Derek hoisted his pale, thin legs over his shoulders, exposing his firm, rotund ass. Spreading the young Stilinski’s cheeks, Derek smiled.   
“Nobody ever tasted this cherry pie?” he growled. Stiles shook his head. Derek slid two fingers in his mouth with a devious look in his eyes, before playing with the rim of Stiles’ pink, virginal boy-pussy. Stiles squirmed, shaking his head, his eyes begging.   
The first finger entered and Stiles’ body bucked toward the ceiling, trying to stop him, the searing, mind-numbing pain seemed to shoot deep inside him as the walls of his anus contracted against the foreign visitor. The second finger was even worse, as he felt his boy-cunt widen and stretch. He was sure he was going to shit all over Derek’s hand, the pressure and scorching pain stinging deep inside him.   
“You’re tight.” Derek whispered; “Guess we’re gonna have to work on loosening you up, first.”   
Fear struck deep into the core of Stiles Stilinski as he resigned himself to his fate. 

Tom awoke refreshed and well rested, for the first time in weeks. There had been no rude awakenings, no horrible flashbacks to try and forget. Instead, he awoke to Shawn’s light snoring. It was a relatively comforting sound. He and the young, criminally naïve Canadian had become close very quickly, something Tom had noticed seemed to happen only in prison. The experience of sharing something so traumatic and being cooped up together with no chance of escape was a likely scenario to strike up friendships and compromises in most cases. If you’re to be stuck together for so long, might as well get along.

At morning roll-call, Tom looked down to the first floor, where he saw a man vaguely familiar come out of Stiles’ cell. Then Stiles himself emerged, and Tom’s stomach dropped like an anvil.   
“What the fuck happened to your face?!” Tom screeched through gritted teeth at the breakfast table. Stiles looked exhausted, peering meekly through his eyelashes. His face was the color of an eggplant. One eye was swollen shut, purple and mottled with a sickly yellow color above the cheekbone, and his lips were puffed to twice their size.   
“Gee,” he said, slurring his words; “Maybe I fell…are you nuts?! They put me in a cell with Derek Hale, what did you think was gonna happen?!”   
He whistled on every “S” and was on the verge of tears.   
“He wouldn’t let me sleep,” he continued; “Made me stand in the corner of the room and told me that if I moved so much as an inch that he’d kill me.”   
“Speak to the warden, get moved out of there. The guy’s insane!”   
Stiles shook his head; “I can’t. He’ll know, and he’ll kill me.” 

The day drew in gray, an icy wind blowing through the very walls of the prison. Shawn shuddered as he was put to work in the kitchen, scrubbing pots and pans, their burnt black bottoms impossible to come clean. A portly, black female guard watched him closely, her hand on her holster, dark beady eyes surveying the whole kitchen.   
Black grime slid all over Shawn’s hands, as the hot water burned his icy, numb fingers.   
“Hurry up with my crock-pot, boy! We need it for lunch!” roared one inmate. Shawn hurried, sorting through the huge metal tub of murky water, wondering what the hell a crock pot was.   
“The crock pot is on your left.”   
The hairs stood up on the back of Shawn’s neck. The deep, seductive Texan drawl was like re-living a nightmare. Shawn took a deep breath, grabbed the crock-pot and began to wash it, scrubbing hard. He daren’t turn around and look into the eyes of Cameron Dallas. 

“You not gonna talk to me? Not even gonna turn around?”   
Shawn’s mind raced. He could think of a hundred things he wanted to say, but not one would come out of his lips. He stammered; “What do you want, Cameron?”   
“I just wanna talk to you, just a couple minutes of your time.”   
“I don’t think so.” Shawn said, his voice unwavering; “Considering you’re the reason I’m in here, you don’t now get to talk your way out of it.”   
“Shawnie, that’s not what I…”   
Shawn’s skin prickled at the nickname. He spun on his heel and glared into Cameron’s disarming eyes, feeling himself melt at the mere sight of his beautiful ex-lover after all this time. Trembling, he maintained a steely look, breathing deeply through his nose.  
“Fuck off Cameron!” he half-shouted, making direct eye contact. “Go ruin someone else’s life.”   
“Hey, get back to work! Both of you!” called the guard, hand poised on her holster for effect; “This ain’t the Copacabana.”   
Cameron looked hurt by Shawn’s dismissal, before feigning an arrogant smile; “I’ll be seeing you around, Shawn.”   
Shawn turned back to his dishes and scrubbed with all his might, hiding the tears that were now dripping down his cheek. 

“I’m proud you stuck to your guns, mate.” Tom said as he and Shawn sat down to dinner. “But if you think about it, he’s the reason you’re in all this trouble, so maybe he’s the one to get you out of it, if you catch my drift.”   
Shawn pondered the point; he hadn’t thought of it that way.  
Tom’s eyes constantly roamed around the room, looking for Stiles. At last he appeared, looking ashen with exhaustion, his face even more swollen and distorted since breakfast. Shawn grimaced at the sight of him. After being served his questionable stew, he sat down next to his friends.   
“You look like hammered shit.” Tom said bluntly. Stiles nodded.   
“You really should talk to a guard or something.” Shawn interjected; “I mean, ethically they can’t let this happen to you.”   
Stiles put his head in his hands.   
“What part don’t you get, Canada?” he said through swollen lips; “We are on our own. The guards don’t give a rat’s ass, so ethically, they won’t do shit. We have to fend for ourselves, and luckily I have a plan.”   
“You’re not gonna kill him, are you?” Tom asked, trying to fake a laugh. Stiles looked blank.   
“No.” he said, pointedly; “But I do have a plan.”  
Stiles’ eyes suddenly filled with dread. Following his gaze, Shawn laid eyes upon the “Wolf-Man of Beacon Hills” for the first time.   
Derek was approaching, his face devoid of emotion. 

The fight broke out almost instantaneously. Food flew around the dining room as four Southside Creepers attacked Derek Hale, their fists flying and faces contorted in masks of rage.   
“Not so tough with men, huh? You sick fuck!”   
The hail of gunfire made every man in the dining room duck for cover. Derek lay on the floor in a fetal position, his nose burst and face bloody.   
Delphine LaLaurie stormed up the hall, her round face filled with rage. Unleashing her nightstick, she swung with reckless abandon as the other guards held the Creepers in place, cracking them about the face and head.   
“You miserable motherfuckers!” she roared through gritted teeth; “I’ve had enough of you! Hold them upstairs!”   
The battalion stormed from the dining room, and Delphine stood alone, her face a picture of rage.   
“If I see one more of you step outta line, I’ll see to it that every fucking one of you have a fractured skull.”   
Shawn sat mute, unable to fathom such an entirely different world than that to which he was used. This was a world of violence, hurt and anguish, all smothered in the fetid stench of human decay and despair.   
There was still some part of him, however diminishing day-by-day, that hoped he’d wake up and this would all be over; some harrowing nightmare he could push to the back of his mind, then get up and make a pot of coffee.   
So far, no such luck.   
Instead he sat in a hushed, stinking dining hall surrounded by convicts and branded a criminal, with the chocolate brown eyes of his ex-lover staring across the room at him. 

The door to Stiles’ cell opened, and Derek sat on the bottom bunk. Stiles gasped, he didn’t expect Derek back from the infirmary until morning. The cast iron door slammed shut behind him, and he stared at his cellmate through a swollen, bruised face.   
“What happens now?” he groaned through swollen and scraped lips.   
“If you’re referring to your pathetic little attempt to have me beaten to a pulp in the dining room, then it’s safe to assume I’ll be looking for reparations of some description.”   
Stiles nodded, he didn’t bother to even deny it, nor fight his consequences.   
“Gotta give a boy points for trying though?”   
Derek managed a smirk; “Stiles, one day I will truly enjoy killing you. But you think I’m not gonna enjoy this first? You think I won’t drag out your punishment for as long as I deem necessary? I’m your judge, jury and executioner. Don’t bother looking over your shoulder for me, because when I do finally decide to destroy you, I’m gonna do it right to your face.”  
Stiles slept soundly that night, if Derek came to cut his throat in the night, he wouldn’t fight it. In a stupor of pain and exhaustion, his head didn’t even hit the pillow before he slipped into unconsciousness. 

Shawn Mendes lay awake, the light sound of Tom’s breathing above him breaking the pitch-black silence. The light from a bright, beaming moon cast silhouettes of the barred windows across the cell floor. Tossing against the starched, scratchy blanket, he dreamed of sleep. But sleep wouldn’t come. Every time he felt himself slip between realms of consciousness, the image reappeared.   
He remembered as vividly as if it were yesterday. Barefoot in the park, he gazed into the dark eyes of the man he loved. They lay in the grass, faces pointed toward a cloudless sky, telling the secrets of their souls. Playing softly on his guitar, Shawn and Cameron sang 1960’s protest songs. Root-Beer floats and French fries had come after, before darkness set in and they had to part ways. It was one of Shawn’s most treasured memories, and most perfect days. It was to be the love of his life, the one to finish all love stories.   
And this was how it ended.


	8. On Silent Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shawn's Mother comes to visit him as Cordelia Foxx tries to further his cause for an appeal. The past comes back for Fiona Goode as Stiles' father attempts to take matters into his own hands.

Monday morning came too quick, as it is prone to do. The 7am screech of the alarm jolted Fiona Goode from her grudging sleep.   
Her Calabasas mansion rose out of the misty morning fog like an eerie fairy-tale castle. She stood in her grand, elegant bedroom which reeked of Marlboro smoke and the heady night of champagne before. The young man had not long left, the smell of his musky aftershave still lingering in a heady mix of scents. She’d left his money on her dresser, tipping him generously before going off to shower, instructing that he be gone before she returned.   
“And the silver is counted,” she smirked; “So don’t get any ideas.”   
Studying herself in her full-length mirror, she slipped into her black dress and suit jacket. Her 64 years were beginning to betray her. The rigors of age had begun to creep across her face, much to her dismay. Caking on makeup, she was determined not to let herself go. Furious, she turned from the mirror. 

Henry Cavill slammed his alarm off, groaning as he rejoiced in the warmth of his eiderdown quilt. Cordelia pressed up against his back, draping her arms around him.   
“Don’t go,” she croaked; “Stay, it’s cozy.”   
“Gotta earn a crust,” Henry said, rising from the bed. His morning belch tasted of wine and Indian food. Making a wry face at the horrible aftertaste, he went to shower. 

Shawn Mendes had tossed and turned most of the night, often quelling the rush of tears that jolted to his eyes as the realities of prison life began to sink in. When, at breakfast he was notified his lawyer was waiting for him, he could have leapt for joy. 

“Good morning.” Cordelia Foxx smiled from across the table as Shawn was led in and cuffed to the chair.   
“Please tell me you have some good news!” Shawn sighed as he was cuffed, and the guard left.   
“Well,” she said smiling; “Your Mother is coming to see you tomorrow. Give me a list of provisions you’d like her to bring for you?”   
Shawn felt a lump in his throat as he thought of his mother. Her warm embrace, the smell of her Opium perfume. He struggled to think.   
“A toothbrush? Clothes?”   
Shawn nodded; “Yeah.”   
“I’ll get her to drop off some money too, so you can use the vending machines and the prison store, if you’d like?”   
Shawn nodded; “Yeah that’d be great.”   
“So, I hear your ex has moved in here? How’s that been?”   
He rolled his eyes; “Hell. I can’t look at him without wanting to smash his fucking face in.” Shawn rarely cursed, and there was almost a boyhood innocence to the word “fuck” rolling from his tongue, like when a child first discovers that the word provokes a reaction.   
Cordelia nodded; “I know, but you gotta sit tight. I have some ideas for your appeal. We can get an appeal hearing booked in for early December, so the actual proceeding would begin somewhere around mid-March.”   
Shawn’s heart fluttered; “March?! I’ve gotta stay here until March?!”   
Cordelia’s face softened; “I know, Shawn. Appeals can sometimes take years, it means a re-examining of the entire case and more. The LA legal system is so bogged down, it’s impossible to get things fast-tracked. You’re just gonna have to stick it out. It’s the best we can do.” 

Shawn always wanted to be a singer. When he was little, he’d sing for hours, babbling out a melody before he could even talk. As a child he was sure that one day, he’d be a big star. Maybe even just a songwriter, or a famous guitarist. He was an imaginative child with a big heart and big dreams. Even when the other kids at school would laugh and make fun of him, his imagination was his sanctuary. It made him happy to think that all the other kids just didn’t know yet who he was going to be. However, one day, he’d show them.   
When his father died, and the family moved to Los Angeles, the land of the rich and famous, he’d thought for sure that he could make it there. He just needed the right moment, the right song, and the right person to come along, to see him for what he could be and believe in him.   
So, he started scouting out local radio stations, beginning his hunt for who was going to discover him. Opportunity was around every corner, he never knew his luck.   
It was at a local open mic night that they’d first locked eyes.   
Del’s was a seedy bar just off Hollywood Boulevard. At 19, Shawn still needed his mother to accompany him into the bar. Apart from Aaliyah, she was his biggest fan, and would openly cheer and holler when Shawn took to the stage, making the pale Canadian blush and grin with delight and embarrassment.   
The song was a simple little composition, strummed out on his acoustic guitar.   
Let’s write our story,   
And let’s sing our song,   
Let’s hang our pictures on the wall,   
All these precious moments,   
That we carved in stone,   
Are only memories after all.   
His melodic voice carried over the din of the bar, and they fell into a hushed silence as he unleashed his powerful, soulful voice. He finished his song to rapturous applause.   
“Boy, you’re going places.”   
The voice came as Shawn exited the stage. He turned around and gazed into the most striking eyes he’d ever encountered. Cameron Dallas stood against the wall, his arms folded, with a smile on his face.   
Their attraction was instant, no words were needed to ratify it. The glint in both their eyes was enough. They exchanged numbers that very night.   
Their first date was at a small Bohemian coffee shop named Montel’s. Shawn had spent the whole day with butterflies in his stomach. He’d ran a bath, and spent over an hour in the mirror, trying to fix his unruly mop of dark hair. In a white shirt and denim jacket, Karen admired her son.   
“You look very handsome,” she beamed, running her hand over his porcelain cheek; “He’s a lucky boy.”   
Cameron arrived, looking effortlessly cool in a fashionable ripped t-shirt and black jeans, his fingers glittering with rings.   
They’d sat at a small corner table, their eyes locking over their lattes, talking at great length about everything and nothing. Shawn trembled with nerves, and his voice was soft and jittery. The foam atop his latte quaked with his trembling hands and trying to place it back on the saucer delicately, he scaled the coffee all over the table, much to Cameron’s amusement.   
“Oh, shit! I’m so sorry!” Shawn lamented. Cameron laughed.   
“Stop being so nervous, babe.” Cam said coolly; “You don’t have to be scared of me.”   
They held hands under the table, Shawn’s eyes scanning the room to make sure nobody was looking at them. He was still insecure about his sexuality, even in the 21st century.   
Dropping Shawn back off when the blackness of night drew in, they shared their first kiss in Cameron’s car. Shawn danced up the stairs to his apartment.   
Gushing to his mother, she smiled; “I’m so happy for you, baby.”   
“Shawn’s got a boyfriend, la la la la la…” Aaliyah sang. Shawn smiled and blushed.   
“Maybe he does.” 

 

The waiting room was a bare, cold room. A poster for AIDS prevention hung precariously on the wall, its edges rumpled and cracked with age. The hard, plastic chairs were tiny and uncomfortable. It reminded Karen of a doctor’s surgery, cramped and silent strangers all looking around one another, or glaring at their phones, a conscious effort to avoid conversing. Possibly to alleviate the heart-rending chatter of who was visiting whom, and what their beloved brothers, sons, fathers had done to be sentenced to jail time. Karen sat next to a young, sunken looking woman with tousled peroxided hair and an oversized pair of dress trousers, an obviously poor woman trying her best to look conservative.   
An older man in a Sherriff’s Department uniform walked in and sat opposite Karen. She pretended not to look but saw that his badge said he was the Sherriff himself. She didn’t dare stare any longer.   
Looking around her at all those faces, crumpled with the despair of having to visit a loved one in prison. She looked into the face of a young black woman, whose tears were brimming in her eyes, and Karen’s own tears began to form in her dreamy blue eyes. Stifling a sob, she raked her purse for a tissue. The young woman next to her turned;   
“It gets easier.” She said in a husky English accent; “But not by much.”   
Karen wiped her face; “Thank you. It’s just…hard to fathom, I guess.”   
The younger woman nodded; “I know, when my boy was first put in here, I couldn’t face coming to visit him. To see him in that jumpsuit just killed me. I avoided it for nearly a year.”   
Karen wiped away her tears and asked in a broken voice; “What made you change your mind?”   
The woman shrugged; “I can’t leave my Tommy. I can’t be without my boy. No Mother could be.”   
“You have a son in here, too?”   
She nodded; “He’s been in here for about three years now. But he’ll be coming home to me soon. We just have to look forward to that day and focus on it. It’s just what we do, we get through it. We Mothers have got to be strong for our boys, eh?”   
Karen nodded; “I miss him so much.”   
“I know, that’s why you need to be a pillar of strength for him. He’ll be missing you, too. More than you’ll know.” 

The prisoners were led in one by one and led to their tables. Shawn’s heart burst when he saw his Mother. Her eyes welled again as she stood up and threw her arms around her son.   
“Oh, baby!” she wept, “I miss you so much! How are you?”   
They sat down, and Shawn’s voice cracked; “I’m ok.”   
He talked in a small, terrified voice, a childlike tone. Karen held his hand, to which a guard protested.   
“No touching, hands on the desk at all times.”   
Karen smiled meekly; “I gave them a bag of clothes for you, and some provisions. I got you some of those potato chips that you like, too.”   
Shawn nodded; “Thanks Mom. How’s Aaliyah?”   
“She’s ok, she misses you. So badly. She wanted to come today, but this is no place for an eight-year-old.”   
Shawn shrugged; “It’s no place for anyone.”   
“How’s the food? Are they treating you alright?”   
“It’s terrible,” he said; “I’m starving all the time, the showers are so cold. And I’m scared, Mom. All the time.”   
Karen began to cry; “Oh, baby, I wish I could trade places with you. But Cordelia says there’s hope, a lot of hope.” 

Rachel Holland beamed when she saw her son being escorted in. Seeing him in that fire-orange jumpsuit and in chains made her heart hurt every time, but she threw on her biggest smile.   
“Hello, darling!” she said. Tom beamed a smile back.   
“Hi, Mum! You look beautiful!”   
They shared a small peck before sitting down.   
“How’s Tessa?!” he asked excitedly. Tom was always requesting that his Mother bring in the latest pictures of his beloved dog’s adventures. This week she’d been to the park, and at the beach. Her pictures showed her chasing her tail and picking up a stick between her teeth, obviously proud of herself. They were given to a guard to be checked before he was allowed to keep them.   
“Where’s Cassandra? I thought she’d come with you?”   
Rachel looked crestfallen; “I’m sorry, Tommy. Cassandra told me she’d write to you. I don’t know how to tell you this, but she’s kind of…met someone.”   
A look of devastation swept across his pale face, and he looked down at his hands.   
“Met someone? How could she?”   
“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” Rachel soothed; “But she’s a young girl, and three years is a long time.”   
“You think it hasn’t been long for me?! I’ve to spend every minute of my life banged up in this shithole, asking permission to even take a piss, does she think its not been hard on me?!”   
They both hung their heads and tried to change the subject. 

“What in the name of Christ happened to your face?!”   
Noah Stilinski’s voice echoed over the din of the visitor room as his son, battered and bruised, sat down before him. The bruises were going a pale, yellow color, ringed by dark purple blotches. Stiles hushed his Dad.   
“Nothing, it’s fine.”   
Noah looked incredulous, his eyebrows raised.   
“Stiles, who did this to you? Tell me now.”   
“Nobody, Dad. I tripped and fell over.”   
“You’re lying. Now who did it?!”   
Stiles’ eyes hit the floor and he squirmed uncomfortably.   
“A gang member. It was my fault, Dad. I opened my mouth to the wrong person.”   
Noah nodded; “You have a tendency to piss people off with that mouth of yours. You always have. But, working as a Sheriff for as long as I have, you learn to get wise and know when people are lying to you. And any parent particularly knows when their kid is selling them a shitheap. Now, tell me the truth. Who beat you like that?”   
Stiles hushed his voice to a whisper; “Dad, they put Derek Hale into my cell.”   
Noah’s face fell; “Jesus Christ! I’m going to that warden, I’m gonna get this sorted!”   
“No, Dad! Please don’t, you’ll just make it worse!”   
“I don’t give a rat’s ass! I’ll tell that bitch what’s what, and I’ll get him put in solitary for the rest of his lousy life!” 

The hour was up before anyone knew it, and they began saying their goodbyes. Shawn felt a pang of heartbreak. It was the first time in his young life he couldn’t put on his coat and leave with his Mother. Her walking away from him, the smell of her Opium perfume thick in the air, Shawn’s eyes pooled with hot, salty tears as he was taken back to his cell. 

The ice rattled in Fiona Goode’s gin and tonic as she extended a glass to her daughter.   
“Gin, Delia?”   
Cordelia rolled her eyes; “I’m driving. And it’s two in the afternoon.”   
Fiona shrugged; “Suit yourself. What can I do for you?”   
“I need to speak to an inmate. A Cameron Alexander Dallas?”   
Fiona nodded; “One of the newbies. Are you his lawyer?”   
“No.”   
“Then no, you may not.”   
“What?! Why?! That’s ridiculous!”   
“The US Constitution does not restrict an inmate from visits with their legal counsel, as you are not Mr. Dallas’ legal counsel, it is my judgment to make whether or not I allow you to visit him. So, the answer is no.”   
Cordelia was incensed, her usual pale skin fiery with anger. She rose from the table.   
“You bitch.” She hissed; “When are you gonna die and stop ruining everyone else’s life?!”   
Fiona lit a cigarette and took a sip of her gin and tonic; “Goodbye, darling. Close the door on your way out.”   
Cordelia grabbed her handbag and stormed out of the office.   
Three sharp raps came on the glass of the door. Fiona rolled her eyes.   
“What?”   
The door opened, and Delphine’s head poked round the door.   
“Sorry Ma’am, I have a Noah Stilinski downstairs who is refusing to leave until he meets with you. What should I do?”  
Fiona turned in her chair. She was just in the humor for Noah Stilinski, her eyes glittering with malice.   
“Send him up, of course.”   
When Noah Stilinski entered the plush office of Fiona Goode, she sat poised in her huge leather armchair, surrounded in a cloud of her cigarette smoke, and a callous smile playing at her lips.  
“Sit down, Noah.”   
He did as instructed before launching into a harsh tirade.   
“What the hell kind of shit-show are you running in here?! Letting the inmates run the asylum? My son has been beaten to within an inch of his life right under your nose, and you do nothing but rest on your laurels!”   
Fiona half-laughed; “I don’t know if you’re aware, but prison life is no cakewalk. The inmates will fight, it’s the nature of the beast, we try our best to minimalize it.”   
“Yeah, that’s why you put my son in with Derek fucking Hale?!”   
“This institution is overcrowded, I cannot help that certain prisoners won’t get along with their cellmates.”   
“Fiona,” he said, a stern look in his eyes; “I get it. You’re still angry as all hell, and you’re determined to punish me. Please don’t punish my son to get at me.”   
Fiona laughed in his face; “Ha! You’re so conceited. You think this is all about you? Darling, this is about so much more than just you. But, since you’re so concerned about your darling son, I will look into your issue and see if there’s anything I can do.”   
Noah nodded; “Thank you.”   
They rose from their seats simultaneously and Noah walked toward the door.   
“You still have a great ass.” Fiona said through a wicked sneer. Noah didn’t even turn around.


	9. Because of You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shawn begins attending anger management classes with the eccentric Myrtle Snow, while devising a plan to spring himself. Meanwhile, Derek Hale's treatment of Stiles worsens.

Fiona Goode never wanted to be a Mother, ever since she first saw her reflection in her father’s eyes. Her own Mother was a malevolent presence, a cold, austere woman to whom physical contact was akin to molestation. An only child, little Fiona was sent off to an elite boarding school in New Orleans, Miss Robicheaux’s School for Girls.   
Her first husband, Clarence Foxx, a wealthy accountant from Baton Rouge, had convinced her that a child would be a good idea. By now a high-powered socialite, Fiona had detested her pregnancy. The morning sickness crippled her social activity, and her condition prevented her from enjoying her usual cocaine-fueled gin and champagne binges. Instead of going to the lavish socialite balls with her handsome husband, she was confined to her bed, her ankles swollen, and stomach ravaged by stretch marks, with a constant craving for spicy Indian food, but an inability to hold even water down. Constantly queasy and sick, Fiona resented pregnancy, refusing to accept “women’s lot in life”.   
When her waters broke, and labor pains began, she was partially relieved to get these infernal nine months over with but was simultaneously bracing herself for the pains of hell to engulf her body.   
Cordelia Borgia Foxx was born on a Tuesday, a healthy, beautiful little girl with pale skin and fair hair. Fiona glared into the eyes of her baby and saw nothing.   
She knew that lying there, her baby in her arms, she should have been overwhelmed with emotion, even simply on account of her displaced, rapidly firing hormones. Instead she lay there, hour after hour, attempting to bond with this helpless little human before her. Instead all she saw was death, her own particularly in that cherubic little face. This child, this diminutive thing in her arms was to be her immortality.   
At home, Cordelia was a quiet baby, but when she cried her roars were guttural and prolonged, cutting to Fiona’s very core. Her cooing father, Clarence would often scold his larger than life wife.   
“She’s a baby, Fiona! She’s gonna cry! You have to attend to her, not just leave her there!”   
Emotionally unstable, Fiona found caring for the infant a dreadful, inane and monotonous task of shitty diapers, gurgling and puking, set amongst a backdrop of screeching.   
The diagnosis of Postpartum Depression did little to quell Fiona’s thoughts, if anything accelerating them, compounding her own idea that she was a terrible mother, and would never bond with the child. To her, it sounded so clinical, so impersonal.  
When Clarence and Fiona divorced, the precocious little girl they’d bore was five. A quiet, shy girl, she was devastated at her parents’ divorce, and began to withdraw even further into herself.   
Exasperated with Cordelia’s reluctance to even leave her room most days prompted Fiona into action. She sent the young Cordelia to Miss Robichaux’s, where she herself had gone as a girl, an attempt to bring the girl out of her shell, to get her socializing with other young girls her own age.   
The plan backfired tremendously, and Cordelia consciously began to hate her abandoning mother for dumping her in this boarding school where she was mercilessly bullied and forever alone.   
The further they grew up, the further they grew apart.   
Fiona Goode wasn’t a person to look back. She never enjoyed a trip down memory lane, but after mixing herself a little too many Rob Roy’s, she had got out the scrapbook she’d kept hidden all these years. Cordelia looked a happy child, swaying in her father’s arms as they danced around the living room. Delicately unwrapping her Christmas gifts, a huge grin on her face. Or that time skiing in Gstaad, where in the grainy image she stood on the crest of a mountain, her wild mane of platinum hair blowing in the freezing wind. Fiona dragged on her cigarette as one solitary tear dripped down her cheek. 

Attend classes, they said. It will be good for your rehabilitation, they said.   
Shawn sat, cross-legged on the floor of a crumbling old room which looked like an abandoned gymnasium and smelled like one too. He sat in a circle with five other prisoners, their hands clasped, and eyes closed.   
Myrtle Snow stood off to the side.   
“And…breathe out!” she cooed in her high, scratchy voice.   
Shawn had been disarmed immediately by Myrtle Snow, a social worker and therapist within Men’s Central Jail. The epitome of eccentricity, Snow was in her early 60s, her mane of fire-red hair and penchant for haute couture, all topped off with an impressively sized pair of horn-rimmed glasses made her an offbeat, extraordinary looking character.   
Shawn was pissed off. They’d been at this “meditation” bullshit for over half an hour. Solidly focusing on breathing and trying to clear his mind, in addition to his ass smarting and numb from the cold concrete floor, made him feel like flipping Myrtle Snow a rather un-Zen-like symbol.   
“Now,” crowed Myrtle; “I want you all to picture someone whom you don’t like very much. It should be relatively easy.”   
The image of Cameron fluttered into Shawn’s mind and he sighed, hating the mental image he had of the gorgeous Texan.   
“Keep their picture in your mind’s eye. Try to think of the reasons why you dislike this character, list them one by one. Now, deep breath in…and out. Now, try to find three things you could learn to like about that person, be it in their appearance or in their personality. List them, one by one.”   
Shawn grit his teeth and attempted to clear his mind. 

Myrtle Snow’s office, where Shawn was led after the class, was a tiny little affair, stuffed away in a remote corner of the prison. She kept so many plants, they hung from the very ceiling and walls and seemed to take over the miniscule room. Cuffed, Shawn was sat down opposite the eccentric Myrtle, who used a gloved hand to light a cigarillo on the end of her improbably long cigarette holder.   
“So, tell me Mr. Mendes.” She said, dragging out his surname; “What is your raison d’etre? What is your reason for being? What excites you, motivates you? Perhaps it will come of use through our therapies.”   
Shawn shrugged his shoulders; “Music, I guess.”   
“Oh!” Myrtle made a grand gesture; “Music, the soundtrack of the soul! There is but no better way to ascertain and access the attentions and longings of one’s very soul than through music! It can certainly be of use in rehabilitating you, to make you fit for re-introduction to society as a competent, functioning member of the great U.S of A!”   
Shawn could tell this was going to be a tedious process. 

The tasks had started off small, with threats of bigger ones for disobedience. Stiles Stilinski had been beaten to a pulp the first night of sharing a cell with Derek Hale and had been tormented mercilessly since. He’d been almost drowned when his head had been rammed into the fetid water of the toilet bowl, from which he was forced to drink. His back and arms had buckled under the weight as Derek used him for a footstool, or occasionally as a chair when he was feeling particularly punishing. Stiles was forced to sleep on the floor at Derek’s feet, while the latter adopted his blankets and mattress. By a week in, the young internet fraudster was bruised, battered and ravaged by exhaustion. He stared blankly into space as he was tied to the end of the bed standing upright. Derek’s latest trick was withholding food from Stiles and this was the third night running. The pain in Stiles’ stomach was excruciating as it had instigated the natural process of trying to digest itself.   
Shawn sat at dinner, regaling Tom with the tale of the wacky Myrtle Snow. Tom laughed;   
“Yeah, we’ve all got to take courses. Mine, would you believe, is Mindfulness. I’m in with a lot of the guys from the gay cells.”   
They shared a laugh, but it was an uneasy one, for they both knew that three days running, Stiles had not been in their company for dinner, nor had they seen him showering. The panic registered in Tom’s eyes every time Derek Hale walked through the dining room, a look of blank malevolence on his face. 

Stiles wriggled, his jaw set and teeth clenched as he pulled at the blanket bindings which he was now fighting to extricate himself from. He felt it loosen, he could move his wrists. His heart warmed with joy as he began pulling, and the material began to give. His elation lasted less than a mere second, before Stiles could hear the prisoners being escorted back to the cells.   
Sliding his hands back into position, he waited for the door to open.   
Minutes passed before the steel door opened, and the footsteps entered the room.   
Derek’s face appeared in Stiles’ line of vision.   
“Good evening.” 

“I just know that twisted bastard’s doing something horrible to Stiles!”   
Tom was pacing the cell, something Shawn noticed he did when he was stressed, walking in small circles, hand at his forehead, his boyish grin replaced by a worrisome angst.   
“Maybe we can talk to a guard? Or the warden?” Shawn asked. Tom shrugged.   
“We’ve got to do something, mate. Stiles could be injured…or…I don’t know, something like that.” 

It had happened before he’d even thought about it. It was a feeling of euphoria, then of instant regret. It didn’t happen like it would in the movies, when Stiles loosened his restraints enough, brought his fist down and landed a hefty punch in the side of Derek Hale’s face. In the movies, he would have been knocked out for the count, but sadly this was not the movies, and Derek did not go down. He remained standing, his eyes ablaze with rage. Stiles ran for cover, but in a 6x8 cell, there was no cover to be had.   
When he had Stiles by the scruff of the neck, he whispered through gritted teeth.   
“You’re going to wish you hadn’t done that.” 

Stiles’ arms struggled against the toilet bowl, as Derek flushed it. Gargling, drowning, Stiles screamed into the water, his head constricted in the tiny, fetid metal bowl. Wrenching him from the water, Derek’s balled fist connected with Stiles’ face with such brute force that the boy could see stars and began to taste his own blood. Another came to the eye socket, blinding him. He flailed into the air, helpless to defend himself. Derek’s icy glare was merciless.   
Stiles lay prostrate on the floor, Derek’s foot keeping him in place.   
“PleaseDerekI’mSorry!”   
His pleas fell on deaf ears as the Wolf-Man pulled the orange jumpsuit down his body and grabbed his t-shirt. Through bloody spittle and swollen, split lips Stiles pleaded.   
“No, Derek. Please don’t.”   
The brute force of Derek tore his favorite Marvel t-shirt in just three pulls, splitting it down the middle, exposing Stiles’ lithe, smooth body, which was by now peppered with huge, angry purple bruises.   
Stiles’ body jerked and contorted as Derek pulled at his underwear, shredding them and exposing the boy’s genitals to the freezing cold floor. His hand around the boy’s throat, Derek shoved him into position and began palming himself through his jumpsuit.   
“No, please.” he sobbed through his swollen lips.  
His torn underwear stuffed in his mouth, Stiles’ head rested against the bed with Derek’s hand around his throat. He felt the long, hot shaft against his virginal cunt, and wept bitterly. The pain was unimaginable when he entered, Stiles’ hips bucking and legs trying to kick out. He screamed into his gag as the stinging, hot, fiery pain engulfed him. Beads of sweat began to pour from every pore on his body as Derek slammed into him. Tears streamed down his face as the Wolf-Man’s hips bucked back and forth. Stiles thought he would be torn in two as the pain ripped through his ass and lower abdomen.   
The “Wolf of Beacon Hills” grunted as his hips jerked, and he moved quickly into Stiles. In, out. In, out. Sweating and tensing, his green eyes were aflame with unbridled voracity.

When Nick Jonas took up his post at 20:00hrs, he did his usual rounds, gun cocked in his hand and a smile across his face, as his deep brown eyes surveyed every inch of the cement and steel tower. He heard the noises coming from #113, getting louder as he approached. The familiar sounds of East Block were the low buzz of the fluorescent lighting, the distant sound of keys rattling and the low hum of quiet conversation. This was a different sound this night. Jonas put his ear to the door and could hear the struggles and the grunting of labored breathing.   
As quietly as he could, Nick Jonas unlatched the peep-hole in the door and slid it back.   
Derek Hale’s naked ass tensed as he bucked his hips forward, pummeling further into the young Stilinski, who lay positioned painfully on the floor, his ass high in the air and head resting on the bed, his eyes dry, drained of tears. His voice was raw from screaming and all he could smell was his own drying blood, which clotted in his nose and cloyed in the back of his throat.   
Derek’s balls were drawn up, no longer slapping Stiles’ ass. He knew Derek was about to come, and welcomed the moment for all its grotesque glory, that the act would finally be at an end.   
“Fuck, fuck, fuuuuuck!”   
Within seconds, Stiles felt the hot rush of semen in his anus, marking the end of his ordeal. At least this part of it. Derek thrust a couple more times before rolling off Stiles and onto the bed, his breathing ragged and shallow as sweat beads rolled off his drenched body.   
Nick Jonas could only smile.  
He’d always longed for someone to put the hyperactive, smarmy Stiles in his place, and he’d now seen it, up close and in glorious technicolor. 

Stiles made himself as small as possible on the floor, crouching in a corner, his face bruised and bloody and his boy-cunt smarting and thunderously painful. Tears streamed down his face as it came lights-out.   
Within a few minutes, he heard Derek snoring.   
It would be a long, cold night of Stiles shivering, crying in the dark. 

“Are you still blubbering?”   
Derek had awoken to the sound of Stiles’ soft, bitter sobs in the middle of the night. Leaning on his elbow, he caught sight of the boy’s silhouette in the dark, a beam of moonlight shining in the high, barred window as he sat in the corner, his knees drawn up to his chest.   
“Leave me alone.” Stiles whispered.   
Derek sighed groggily; “You know, Stiles. Every time I consider feeling sorry for you, I have to remember that you brought this all on yourself. If you could only have shut that big hole in your face and minded your own pathetic little life, we wouldn’t be in this predicament. Now why don’t you think about that? And stop fucking blubbering. Be a man and take it.”   
Stiles lashed out, his eyes wild and gestures grand in the darkness of the cell.   
“I’m not crying about that, okay asshole?! I don’t care what you do to me! Kill me for all I care, but it’s my Mom’s anniversary, so could you please just let me mourn in five minutes’ fucking peace?!”   
Stiles buried his head in his knees and cried silently. He braced himself for the kick to the face he was sure was coming as he heard Derek come out of the bed. He exhaled and accepted his fate.  
Derek’s bare feet appeared in front of him and Stiles’ stomach tightened, waiting for the blow that would eventually come. When he saw Derek sit down in front of him, he could little conceive what was happening.   
“Look at me.”   
Stiles grudgingly met his green eyes, which looked sincere and twinkled with a melancholy, tired look in the light of the moon.   
“I know what you’re going through, Stiles.”   
There was silence. Stiles nodded and turned away again. Derek continued.   
“It fucking sucks. Keep her memory close.”   
Stiles nodded, wiping a lone tear from his swollen cheek.   
“She died when I was 10. It’s so weird, with every year that passes it gets that little bit harder to remember her face. She’s just a faded smile in my memory now. They say time heals all, but it doesn’t. It just makes it easier. I miss my Mom, the smell of her perfume, her voice, her singing random old songs in the kitchen.”   
A slight smile came to Derek’s face as he remembered his Mother.   
“I guess it’s the little things I miss.”   
Stiles sniffled; “She wanted me to do so well, to do so many good things. Look where I wound up without her.”   
Derek nodded; “Get into bed, Stiles.”   
Stiles’ eyes widened; “I’m not having sex with you, Derek! Please don’t make me-“   
Derek shook his head; “No, Stiles, it’s nothing like that. Just get in the bed, unless you prefer the floor.”   
Stiles nodded; “Ok.”   
Standing up, his bones cracked and muscles screamed in agony, his bruises already going every shade of the rainbow. He threw himself into the bed, and Derek climbed in at his side.   
“Scooch down,” Derek rasped; “It’s to be a cold night.”


	10. Men's Central Prison Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shawn must yet again confront his past, as life at Men's Central becomes ever tougher.

“Just so we’re clear, I still hate you.”  
Those were Derek’s first words to Stiles, as the younger man winced, attempting to pull on his clothes, his body aching with bruises and his ass still stinging in pain from last night’s savage attack. The evidence still lay on the cell floor in the form of his torn t-shirt and ragged underwear. Stiles lowered his head, his voice a low whisper.   
“I hate you too, Derek.”

Shawn was ill-at-ease at the breakfast table, his greasy oatmeal making him queasy. He tried to eat and drink his see-through, lukewarm coffee as Nick Jonas’ eyes bored into him from across the room. In the last few days, the young guard’s eyes had trailed the Canadian “newbie”. It made him feel violently ill to think of Jonas’ thoughts, especially after Tom’s ordeals with the brutal young officer.   
Shawn looked up, making brief eye contact with Nick Jonas’ intense whiskey-colored stare. Quickly, he averted his eyes back to his oatmeal.   
Tom’s face lit up when Stiles walked into the dining room, despite his face being a map of the world in every color, deep purple bruises veined with red and yellow, and one eye swollen shut. Derek Hale was a few steps behind in the line.   
“That bastard.” Tom whispered.   
Stiles came over sullenly and sat next to Tom.   
“How are you?” Tom asked quietly. Stiles rolled what he could of his eyes.   
“Oh, fantastic! Lovely weather we’re having lately. Oh, by the way, did I mention I’m sharing a cell with a serial killing psychopath who wants me dead?”   
“Ok, Stiles. I get the picture.”   
Stiles' voice fell silent as Derek walked by, not even glancing in the boys' direction.   
"There he goes, love of my life." Stiles said through swollen lips.  
Tom’s eyes followed Derek, who sat two tables away from them. When he was confident he couldn’t be overheard, Stiles began to speak, his voice a raspy whisper.   
“He starved me for three days. He’s beat me to shit and last night, Tommy he…”   
Tears formed at the edge of his swollen eyes and his lower lip began to quiver. He took a deep breath and steeled himself for the words he was about to say; “he raped me.”.   
He said the words calmly, in an even, almost flippant tone. Tom’s jaw dropped, aghast.   
“You’re fucking joking?!”   
Stiles shook his head, his voice began to quiver; “I hurt everywhere.”   
“Dude, you need to go to the warden.” Shawn chimed in, a look of dismay on his young face. Stiles gave him a sideways glare. He turned back to Tom.   
“Can I fucking hit Canada yet?” 

Cordelia Foxx always wanted to be a lawyer. She had spent long, lonely hours dreaming of fighting for the underdog, making their voices heard above the din of the cold, austere air of the courtroom. Sadly, her romanticized vision of freeing the innocent and reclining in the fruits of her labor in a spacious office, perched in a high wing-backed chair, her plush surroundings painted in a pale pastel color, had been a little far-fetched, even in Los Angeles.   
Instead, her Southwestern Law School degree only put her in a line of thousands waiting for the same dream as her. Cordelia had opened Foxx Molinsky & Co. with her best friend from college Louisa Molinsky, under the agreement that they’d share the rent of the office and that Louisa would take civil cases, while Cordelia took criminal cases.   
The office sat on the upper floor of an outlet mall. Cramped and dingy, the only natural light came from a long-decrepit skylight in the waiting room, and a barred window in each office. It stunk of mildew and neglect, damp running through the crisp white paint Cordelia had painstakingly slathered on the walls.   
Louisa Molinsky had skipped out after two months, going back to live with her parents in Boulder, Colorado. Cordelia was left alone to run the office and was responsible for the two-year lease by herself. She’d bribed Henry into taking out another mortgage on the house, much to his displeasure.   
By six months in, Cordelia had two cases. One DUI and a Minor Assault Charge. On the verge of tears, she couldn’t make the ends meet, and knew she’d have to admit failure, which would only please her viper Mother.   
That’s when the phone rang.   
Rodrigo Orozco was a 23-year-old gangbanger who was about to stand trial for murder. Thomas Deakins, his lawyer, had called quits on the case after Orozco’s mother could no longer afford to pay his retainer. Diana Orozco sobbed down the phone, telling Cordelia she’d found her name on a Google search and thought it was “manna from heaven”. The hysterical Hispanic woman promised to pay Cordelia within a couple of months whatever price she named, if she promised to help Rodrigo. Cordelia felt a stir within her body, like a seismic shift. This was exactly the reason she wanted to practice law.   
And it was worth it. Rodrigo Orozco was the best of a bad bunch. A member of the Southside Creepers, one of the most feared and violent gangs in LA County, since the age of 11, Orozco had seen a few things in his day, no doubt. But the murder he stood trial for, he was innocent of. And Cordelia could prove it.   
Rodrigo sat in front of Cordelia Goode as a free man three years later, a grateful smile on his face.  
“Jefa!” he said, smiling a long toothy grin, his olive skin creasing into dimples. “What can I do for you?”   
“I need some intel,” Cordelia said, a sly grin on her face; “Because I have a hunch.”   
“Of course, whatever you need.” Orozco said in his thick Hispanic accent, his green eyes glinting in the fluorescent light of Cordelia’s decrepit office.   
“You’re in with the leaders of the Creepers aren’t you?”   
Rodrigo’s eyes widened; “I ain’t no snitch. I ain’t gon’ tell you the names of those guys.”   
Cordelia shook her head, flicking her platinum hair behind her ear.   
“No, no. Nothing like that. I just need you to tell me about a man named Cameron Dallas.”   
Rodrigo’s eyes hit the floor.   
“Whatcha wanna know?”   
“His father, Mateo Dallas is a very well-known Southside Creeper, high up I'm led to believe, thus I presume he was aware of a very large cocaine deposit headed Mexico way about five months ago in the back of his son’s car?”   
Rodrigo tutted; “Don’t know nothin’ ‘bout ‘dat.”   
“Rodrigo, you know that I deal with liars all day, every day. I know when I can smell bullshit.”   
He rolled his eyes; “Alright, alright, Jefa. Imma tell you ‘cos you the only reason I ain’t rottin’ in there with him right now, but you gotta understand ‘dat I ain’t gon’ testify in no court.”   
Cordelia smiled; “With all due respect, Rod, a jury would never believe you anyway.”   
“Perfect. First things first, ‘dat drop ain’t had nothin’ to do with the Dallas kid.” 

The letter smelled like home. Shawn could faintly detect the smell of Yankee Candle on the brilliant white piece of paper. Clean Cotton was his Mother’s favorite kind. He’d bought her a set for Mother’s Day that year. It felt like a million years ago. 

My darling Shawn,   
I’ve been thinking for hours of what to say to you. There are no words to sum up the pain in my heart, without you here life has been miserable for me. I miss you all the time. Your smile, your laughter. Whenever I can bear to, I go into your room where I can smell you, and for one brief, beautiful moment it feels like you’re still here. I sometimes put on your robe and can still smell your cologne and play your Johnny Cash records. Occasionally, I have to get drunk just to fall asleep. I wake up every morning and in that beautiful delirium between sleep and awake, I almost forget that you’re not here. It crushes my heart every day when reality hits.   
Cordelia keeps me updated with your case. It looks hopeful but breaks my heart to think of you in that place for even a moment longer. If I could give up my own freedom for yours, I’d do it in a heartbeat without question. Aaliyah talks about you all the time, she misses you terribly. I was thinking of bringing her to see you next Tuesday if you’d like?   
Cordelia told me I should keep my writings and visits cheerful and optimistic, but I have to say what I feel Shawn. The only thing that gets me through these long, lonely days is the thought that you’ll be home soon. Back where you belong, warm in your own bed. I knew it would be hard, I just didn’t know it would be this hard. I cannot wait to see you, and I miss you all the time.   
I love you, son.   
Always, Mum xxxx 

Love you Shawn,   
From Aaliyah xxxxx 

The hot sting of tears pricked at Shawn’s deep brown eyes as his breath came short and ragged. He held the letter close to his chest and wept bitterly.   
“Hey, dude.” Tom said, “I know it’s tough. First two weeks and last two weeks are always the worst I hear.”   
Shawn choked on his sobs; “I…don’t belong h-here.”   
“I know, mate. Come here.”   
Tom embraced the tall Canadian who wept into his shoulder, mourning his once taken-for-granted freedom. 

The dining room was abuzz with chatter and the clattering of plastic trays. The smell of burning, charred meat permeated the nostrils of the inmates. Shawn felt good to wear his own t-shirt, which he’d earned for his “good behavior”. He wasn’t entirely sure what he’d done so “good”, but was thankful for small mercies.   
Stiles’ bruising was beginning to pale, no longer the aggressive purple but fading to an off-yellow, with scarlet rings   
around the outside.   
The changing of the guard had just taken place, and Nick Jonas stood proudly, gun cocked over his arm as he marched up and down the dining room, his smoldering brown eyes glaring from table to table. His thin lips curved into a smile that could have been laced with rat poison as his eyes locked with Shawn’s, who was quick to turn his head. 

Returning his tray, Shawn felt Nick Jonas’ breath hot on his ear.   
“You know, everybody needs a friend in here.”   
Shawn’s skin prickled, and every hair on the nape of his neck stood to attention.   
“I’ve got a friend, and his name is Tom.” He said without turning around. Jonas chuckled.   
“Really? That scrawny little fuck? You think he’s gonna be there for you when the gangs start after you?”   
Shawn turned around, his eyes wide: “Gangs?”   
Nick grinned; “They’ll come for you. They don’t want him for obvious reasons. He’s a skinny little thing that couldn’t fight sleep, but you? You’re tall, well-built. They’ll be on you like white on rice. You think he’ll look out for you? I could look out for you, in return for a few little favors, of course.”   
Shawn’s jaw dropped, he wanted to smack that smirk from the cocky screw’s face.   
“I think I’ll take my chances.”   
Nick looked incensed, his dark eyes glowing with malevolence.   
“You stuck-up little cunt.” He growled; “You’ll come around. They always do.”   
“The fuck was that about?” Stiles asked as Shawn came back to the table. He shook his head.   
“It was nothing.”   
There began an awkward silence, as Tom looked toward his empty tray, his heart sinking for the naïve Canadian. 

“Anger is a blight on one’s soul, and holding on to it only exacerbates the blackness. You must learn to let go of the negative energy. You do that by finding out the very core of your anger and banishing it. Confront the nasty demon that it is and exorcise it from you, and you’ll find yourself a happier person.”   
Shawn sighed as Myrtle Snow droned on. He sat with several other inmates in the old gymnasium, barefoot and cross-legged on the floor. Focusing on his breathing, as he was told, he listened to Myrtle cooing in her haughty, upper-class dialect.   
“You can tell someone you’re angry with them and state your reasons why without resorting to vulgar fisticuffs.”   
Once again, the image of Cameron fluttered into Shawn’s preconscious mind and his blood began to boil. 

“I’m not proud of the part I played, Your Honor. I will take any punishment deemed fit, but I can’t let Shawn Mendes hurt anyone else, or get anyone else into trouble.”   
Shawn’s heart crumbled as he watched Cameron take the witness stand, and the jury seemed to buy it. Cameron’s fake tears incensed Shawn, who rose from the table and wailed across the courtroom.   
“You fucking liar!”   
The courtroom fell silent, and The Honorable Marcia Clark banged her gavel, a look of fury in her usually calm exterior.   
“Order! Mr. Gettleman, please instruct your client to sit down and be silent. The defense will have their chance to respond in cross examination.”   
Harvey reigned Shawn in; “Don’t ever do that again.” He whispered.   
Tears streamed from Shawn’s face as he held his head in his hands. Cameron had turned the tables entirely.   
“Mr. Dallas,” the prosecutor began; “In your own words, what happened the night of June 1st of this year?”   
Cameron looked sheepish; “Shawn had me drive us to Mexico.”   
“Did he tell you why?”   
“He told me he had some business to take care of.”   
“And what was that business?”   
Cameron looked Shawn dead in the eye before turning back to the older, matronly prosecutor.   
“He wouldn’t tell me, but he made me load up the trunk with what looked like drugs. And lots of it.”   
“Why didn’t you refuse, Mr. Dallas?”   
Cameron looked down and shook his head; “I saw the gun, I was scared.”   
He made his voice crack on the last word, and the jury looked sympathetic.   
“You were scared of what he may do to you? And where did the defendant keep the gun on this journey?”   
“He held it in his lap.” Cameron whispered dramatically. The prosecutor sighed contentedly, she was evidently pleased.   
“I put it to the court,” she said; “That the witness, in fear of his life, made a terrible misjudgment. But I ask you, wouldn’t anyone under the circumstances?” she turned to Harvey; “Your witness.” 

A cold chill drew into the late October evening, and Shawn stood shuddering in the yard, waiting for the prime moment. Tom chatted idly, regaling Shawn of his beautiful baby Tessa, his bull terrier dog. Shawn was but half-listening, his eyes trained on the other inmates, searching for that one person he needed.   
When Cameron Dallas entered the yard, flanked by three other men, Shawn seized the opportunity.   
“I’ll be right back.” He said, cutting Tom off mid-sentence as he began to walk towards his ex-lover. His legs were shaky, and his heart was fluttering.   
Stiles approached Tom; “Hey man, what’s up? Where’s Canada going?”   
Tom looked anxious; “I think he’s approaching his ex.”   
Stiles sucked his teeth; “Yeah, you mean the guy with the crowd of Southside Creepers?”   
Tom nodded.   
“Oooh, let’s watch Canada get his ass handed to him. This should be interesting.”   
Shawn tried to keep his legs steady and his voice calm.   
“Hello, Cameron.”   
Cameron looked up with a half-smile, the two men with him perking to attention.   
“Well if it isn’t an old friend. How are you, Shawn?”   
“Can I speak to you for a minute? In private?”   
Shawn felt the presence of three other men approach him from behind and flank behind Cameron, who stood with his arms folded.   
“Anything you can say to me, you can say to them.”   
Shawn spotted the tattoo on Cameron’s right arm instantly. The sugar-skulled snake meant only one thing. The gang sneered at the lone Canadian. He gulped.   
“Cameron, I really need your help. I need you to…help me get out of here. You know I don’t deserve this. Please.”   
The gang laughed, loud and heartily. Shawn blushed, realizing just how pathetic he sounded. Cameron smirked a shit-eating grin.   
“Don’t deserve this? Well, well Shawn. Last I checked, you were pretty tough-talking when you had a gun pointed at my head. You don’t have all that mouth now, do you?”   
“Please, Cameron…”   
“I’m sorry that you’re suffering from a little bit of the Folsom Prison Blues, but I’m not really in a charitable mood today, Shawn. I don’t much feel like helping your cause.”   
On the cusp of tears, Shawn managed to suppress it. He didn’t dare cry in front of one of the most fearsome gangs in Los Angeles County.   
“Cam, you know I don’t belong here.”   
Cameron laughed in his face; “You don’t belong here? You got yourself into this, you have nobody else to blame. You get yourself in, it’s your job to get yourself out. Now run along little Shawnie, before I decide to let Paco there really go to town on that beautiful face.”   
Shawn turned and faced the coldest pair of blue eyes he’d ever seen, staring at him venomously. He turned back to Cameron, his eyes wide with fear. He sniggered;   
“Go along, Shawn. We’ll be in touch.” 

“Well, he didn’t die so I guess that’s pretty positive.”   
Tom suppressed a smile; “Stiles, don’t be mean!”   
Shawn sauntered back, his shoulders sunken and head down. Tom smiled.   
“Alright, mate?”   
Shawn nodded; “As useless as expected.”   
Stiles smiled, patting Shawn’s shoulder. “For a second there buddy, I thought we were gonna have matching faces.”   
Shawn managed a smile; “For a second there, so did I.”


	11. Creep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Southside Creepers, one of California's most fearsome gangs, could be the key to Shawn's emancipation, but could be the end of him before then. Things get very complicated for Stiles.

The smell of the greasy pots and pans made Shawn feel nauseous as he scrubbed, the brown grease dribbling down his fingers into the murky grey water. Kitchen Detail was his least favorite task, particularly with the cooking inmates roaring for their utensils back, and throwing more on the ever-increasing pile.   
Shawn sighed as the murky water splashed his orange jumpsuit as another pair of tongs were thrown into the water.   
“X8998, visitor, let’s move!”   
Henry Cavill’s distinct English voice was a welcome sound, even if Shawn was referred to as simply a number. Cuffed, Shawn was led away by the colossal Deputy Chief.   
“My wife seems to like your chances.”   
Shawn’s ears pricked up as they walked the dingy, claustrophobic hallways.   
“Sorry?”   
“Oh, did you not know that Cordelia Goode is my wife?”   
“No, I never knew that. She likes my chances?”   
Cavill smiled; “She seems to think you’ve got a chance of getting out of here. Personally, I’ve got my own theory.”   
The door to the interrogation room swung open, and Cordelia smiled her warm smile.   
Cuffed to the chair, Henry left them to it.   
“So,” she said; “How are you?”   
“Pretty good, considering.” Shawn said, attempting a smile.   
“I instructed your Mother to bring you some stuff you’ll need, so she’s coming by on Tuesday with that, and I hear she’s bringing your sister.”   
“Tell her not to.” Shawn choked; “This is no place for her. I can’t handle seeing her in here.”   
Cordelia nodded; “This place, you can’t let it get the better of you. You’ve got to remember life outside these walls and hold onto it. I’ve seen people driven mad by places like this, don’t forget who you are outside of here. They try to take away your identity piece by piece. Don’t let them.”   
Shawn nodded; “It’s just so hard, y’know? It’s the little things, like being able to go for a cup of coffee or go to sleep and wake up when you like. To go into your own kitchen and make toast, for Christ’s sake. It’s surprising the things I miss.”   
Cordelia nodded; “I have some developments that I need to follow up on. But you can rest assured that I will get you out of here. I have a hunch, but all I need is the evidence.”   
“Tell me everything.” Shawn said, a glint of overwhelming excitement in his eyes.   
“First you need to tell me the truth. This conversation cannot go any further than these walls, and I need to be sure before I can help you.”   
“I’ll tell you anything.”   
“Shawn, did you know? That night?”   
Shawn shook his head vigorously; “No. No. I swear to God I didn’t know! It was Cameron!”   
Cordelia nodded; “And reading the court proceedings, it’s obvious that he’s saying the same thing about you. Do you know anyone in the Southside Creepers?”   
Shawn shook his head, but the epiphany came to him. The sugar skulled snake tattoo on Cameron’s arm was a dead giveaway.   
“No, but I think Cameron does. He’s in here and tattooed, and he was hanging around with them yesterday.”   
Cordelia’s eyes widened; “You saw him? Did you talk to him?”   
Shawn nodded; “I asked him to help me and retract his statement. He wouldn’t.”   
She rolled her eyes; “You shouldn’t have spoke to him. You’ll only give him leverage to use against you.”   
“What else can he do to me? He’s taken away my freedom, and my life. He can’t do anything else to me.”   
“He can hinder your appeal, Shawn! All they need is him to say you’ve harassed him in here and your sentence goes up! Don’t approach him again, Shawn. For your own sake. If he is a Creeper, that helps our case.”   
“Why?”   
“Because the drugs in the back of his car came from the Southside Creepers.” 

“They set it all up to incriminate me.”   
Shawn paced his cell, his brown eyes furious as Tom listened intently.   
“Cameron wanted me to join with him! That…fucking asshole!”   
“So they set you up all along?” Tom asked. Shawn nodded.   
“It wasn’t about Cameron, they had him already! It was for me.”   
“So, let me check I have all this right, Cameron’s Dad is in the upper echelons of the Creepers, he’s a Creeper by birthright and he wanted to initiate you into the gang as his moll?”   
“Sounds about right,” Shawn said, with a dejected shake of his head.   
“Soooooo,” Tom continued, “In essence, you fucked up a drug deal and got Cameron, the son of a high-up Creeper, put in jail. It sounds to me like you’re not in a very safe spot right now.”   
Shawn’s stomach dropped, he hadn’t considered it that way; “Oh, shit.” 

“I don’t see why you should get the same cash for a job you didn’t really complete?”   
“We got a fuckin’ week in solitary for it! We deserve compensation.”   
Stiles scoffed in the face of Sonny and Roman, two enforcers for the Creepers. They’d stopped him in the changing room of the showers, and backed him into a corner, their eyes glaring at him, and fists balled.   
“Yeah, but my task was, if you recall, kill Derek Hale. It wasn’t to have a little slap and tickle in the goddamn canteen! And as for your solitary, occupational hazard.”   
“I’m gonna rip off your head and shit down your neck, Stil-stinky.” Sonny sneered.   
“Thought of that all by yourself? Ooooh, we got a badass over here! As for the whole shitting down my neck thing, if you do as good a job as you did with Derek, I think I can handle it. Now, Sonny, why don’t you and Cher run along and stop bothering me?”   
Stiles was expecting the punch, and ducked to the floor, Sonny’s hand connecting with the hard tiles of the wall.   
“Ow, fuck!”   
Stiles took his moment and landed a hefty uppercut to Roman’s groin. He punched with all his might, but it did little to injure the Creepers’ enforcer.   
“You little fuck!” he roared as he grabbed Stiles’ dark hair and pulled him to his feet. “Nice bruises, care for some fresh ones?”   
“If anyone’s gonna hurt a hair on that boy’s head, it’s gonna be me.”   
The trio turned, and Derek Hale glared viciously; “Get off him.”   
Sonny laughed, releasing his grip on Stilinski’s throat; “Oh, now we get two birds with one stone.”   
Leaping toward Derek, the “Wolf of Beacon Hills” prepared to bare his teeth.   
Derek could feel Sonny’s cheekbone break under his bare knuckles, and blood flew from his mouth. He hit the floor with a damning thud.   
Roman sneered, throwing Stiles backward to the wall as he squared off with Derek.   
“Come on, Wolf-Boy! Show me whatcha got!”   
Derek smiled with a wicked malevolence as the Creeper approached. 

The scream could be heard as far as the cell block. Shawn and Tom were getting ready for dinner when the blood-curdling shriek came. They looked at each other with panic. It was deep, guttural and spine-chilling.   
The jagged bone protruded through the skin at a skewed angle, poking through ragged flesh and torn muscle. Roman’s leg was mangled, and the bone shattered. He screeched an unearthly wail as mind-numbing pain soared through his body. Bleeding profusely, he was unconscious by the time the medics arrived.  
Stiles Stilinski sat in the corner, knees drawn up to his chest and shaking. He’d never seen anything like it. The look of determination on Derek’s face as he used all his might to shatter Roman’s leg and reveling in the dark pool of blood which ran like rivers through the grout of the tiled floor.   
“What the fuck happened in here?!” Cavill roared as he entered, flanked by three other guards. Roman and Sonny lay on the floor, their blood mingling. Cavill spied Hale.   
“Well, come on?!”   
Derek opened his mouth to speak, but the quivering voice of Stiles emerged.   
“It was my fault, Chief Cavill.”   
The Deputy Chief raised an eyebrow; “Stilinski,” he said; “I know you couldn’t fight sleep, never mind two Creepers!”   
“No, no, Deputy Chief. They attacked me, and Derek, he erm…Derek…saved me.”   
Cavill nodded; “They attacked you?”   
“You see the bruises on my face, Chief. It’s been happening for weeks, you know how gangs are, they’ll attack people for nothing! But its thanks to Derek here that I can keep my beautiful face for a little while longer.”   
Cavill shook his head; “Ok, whatever. If this piece of shit dies, I might need you to fill out some paperwork guys. Now get down those stairs and have dinner.”   
The men nodded and began to walk.   
“Hale?” Cavill called out.   
“Yes, Sir?” Derek said, his eyes wide.   
“Looking out for your fellow man, I’m impressed. Well done.”   
Derek nodded and followed Stiles downstairs. 

“Why did you do that?”   
Back in their cell, Stiles was still reeling from the changing room encounter, and could still smell the blood. Derek sighed;   
“Do what?” he asked nonchalantly.   
“You…protected me. You could have watched them beat me to a pulp.”   
Derek smirked; “Like I said, if anyone’s gonna hurt you, it’s gonna be me. Why did you lie?”   
“Lie?” Stiles asked overdramatically; “Me?”  
“You lied to Cavill about your face and made me out to be some kind of Messiah.”   
Stiles rolled his eyes; “Well, that kinda depends on how you define lying.”   
Derek looked quizzical: “You could have thrown me under the bus, but you didn’t.”   
“You did kinda save me, even for your own psychotic pleasure.”   
The hatch on the cell door screamed open, and a tiny paper cup was placed down. Stiles sighed and grabbed the cup, swallowing the pill in one gulp.   
“Thanks Mrs. Nurse!” he called through the hatch, which was promptly closed with a muttering of “cheeky little bastard”.   
“What is that pill for, anyway?” Derek asked as he sat down on his bed.   
“It’s Adderall, I’ve been blessed with ADHD.”   
“I might have known.”   
“I tell you man, without that pill, I’d be intolerable!”   
“Too late,” Derek sighed as he reclined on the bed, a thin trace of a smile beneath his lips. 

“Have you considered my…offer?”   
Even the way Officer Jonas said it made Shawn’s stomach lurch, so dirty, the double entendre obvious. He rolled his eyes and shook his head as he made his way down the breakfast line, Tom and Stiles deep in conversation in front of him.   
“Leave me alone, you creep.” Shawn said flatly, prompting a grin from Jonas.   
“So feisty,” Jonas taunted, his voice a raspy whisper; “I like it.”   
He swaggered off confidently, leaving Shawn reeling with fury.   
He didn’t dare tell Tom what was happening, he didn’t want to upset him. He sat, eating his measly breakfast in contemplative silence, pondering his next move. 

Fiona Goode lit a cigarette, her thin, scarlet lips pursed, and her dark eyes fixed in a furious glare as she eyed Derek Hale, chained to the chair opposite. His green eyes met hers with an equally malevolent stare.   
“I’m gonna ask you one more time, what the fuck is your problem?”   
Derek sighed; “I could ask you the same, Warden. Considering you’ve given me no context to your question.”   
“Don’t get cocky with me, Hale. I’ll put you right back on Death Row where I found you.”   
Derek’s eyes narrowed as Fiona exhaled a long inhale of smoke across the table. Reclining back in her chair, her crimson lips split into a wicked smile.   
“What were you doing defending Stilinski?”   
He sighed; “Those Creepers came at me, and if they die, they die. You forget that they were the group who attacked me in the dining room?”   
“I’m not talking about them, the world’s not gonna miss two gangbanger assholes in do-rags. I have it on good authority that Stilinski got in trouble, and you,” she pointed a red-polished finger across the table; “came miraculously to his rescue. So, tell me, Sir Galahad, what in the name of Christ you did that for?”   
“Well…”   
“We had a fucking deal!” she hissed venomously. Derek’s eyes bored into hers.   
“If anyone is gonna touch Stilinski, it’s gonna be me!” he barked; “And what of our “deal”? I’m nobody’s attack dog, just because you hold some fucking ancient grudge. I’ll deal with Stilinski my way, and in my own time.”   
Reeling, Fiona Goode crushed out her cigarette. “Guard?!” she roared.   
Delphine LaLaurie poked her head around the door.   
“Take Mr. Hale to solitary.”   
Derek’s eyes narrowed, and his lips pursed amusedly as he was lifted from the chair and shackled by Delphine’s guards and removed, while Fiona’s vixen-like eyes kept trained on him.


	12. Gods and Monsters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Halloween draws in, so do the storm clouds threatening to rock Men's Central Jail to its very foundations. Slasher movies are not the only horrors in store on "Fright Night".

Halloween drew in with a misty morning fog. The decrepit dining hall had an excited buzz of voices, animated about the night Stiles Stilinski had meticulously badgered Fiona for. A night of monstrous horror flicks, some chills and thrills. And to even sweeten the pot, the prison store had stocked up bags of popcorn.   
Shawn Mendes was not interested in horror movies. His own life had been slashed to pieces and torn limb from limb, a carcass of its former self, wrapped in a heinous orange jumpsuit.   
He approached with caution, slowly and with his arms up. Cavill eyed him with a glare.   
“Get back to your table, inmate.” He cautioned, hand on his gun to emphasize his point.   
“Deputy Chief, I was just wondering if I could have a moment of your time in private at some point, please?”   
The guard eyed him suspiciously; “If you wish. I’m very busy, but I’ll call on you this afternoon. Now, back to your table. I won’t tell you again.” 

“Have you got a fucking death-wish? Approaching the guards like that, bold as brass?!”   
Shawn laughed at Tom’s concern.   
“It’s nothing, I just need him to sort something out for me.”   
Tom nodded; “You gonna tell me what?”   
“Well, I didn’t wanna tell you but…”   
“Fucking beans again!”   
Stiles slammed his tray down on the table, a measly smattering of baked beans slopped haphazardly over it. “This is the second goddamn day in a row! They claim they’re short of the veggie options!”   
Shawn shook his head; “I didn’t know you were a vegetarian.”   
Stiles rolled his eyes; “Well, I used to be, before I was put on a diet of involuntary starvation!”   
Tom smiled; “Well, Shawn’s on kitchen detail this week. Maybe he can steal something for you?”   
Stiles huffed; “Ha.” He said sarcastically; “Canada couldn’t steal though his life depended on it. Sorry man,” he said turning to Shawn; “Your cherubic little face doesn’t give me “thief” vibes.” 

Shawn stood in the kitchen, his heart thundering in his chest. The door to the walk-in fridge was left open, and he crept in when none of the guards or kitchen detail was watching. Big, white boxes didn’t betray much of what sustenance lay behind them. He rifled through them quickly, diving to the first one he could see, his breath visible in short, sharp bursts in the chill air.   
He hit the jackpot first time, with some over-ripe bananas in the bottom of the box. He grabbed three and went to stuff them up his shirt, which he’d earned back for “good behavior”.   
“Are you planning on stealing those?”   
Shawn spun around, his jaw agape and stomach lurching as he stared into the face of Henry Cavill.   
“N-no S-sir, I was just…”   
“I don’t have time for this. Come up to the office, take the damn bananas with you.” 

Shawn sat opposite Cavill, whose hand always lay rested on his holster as they sat in the derelict guard’s ramshackle office, which comprised of a chipped wooden desk and a lamp inside a tiny brick room with bars at one end.   
“It’s about Officer Jonas, Sir.” Shawn said; “He’s threatening me, and sexually harassing me.”   
Cavill raised his eyebrows: “Really? How? What’s he been saying?”   
Shawn regaled him with the young guard’s behavior in the last week and a half, his continuous taunts and provocative sexual innuendos, much to the older guard’s dismay.   
“Jesus Mendes, you should have come to us sooner. This will not be tolerated. Here, fill this out.”   
Cavill grabbed a form from a drawer somewhere and pushed it across the table to Shawn and handed him a blunt pencil. It was an alien sensation to Shawn, as it dawned on him that he hadn’t written for weeks. His handwriting was jagged and out of practice as he lodged an official complaint.   
“I’ll see to it that this is dealt with immediately,” Cavill said forebodingly; “You’ve no reason to worry, and I’ll see to it that he doesn’t bother you anymore. Now, go hide those bananas before the kitchen staff find them, and get back to work. I’ll trust you to go down alone, I’ve to go deal with another prisoner.” 

The steel door screamed open, and the harsh fluorescent light streamed in, Henry Cavill’s dark silhouette an imposing figure. Derek Hale’s eyes squeezed tight against the hard glare of light after two days of pitch blackness, with only a tray of bread and one cup of water. The rats scratching in the walls were his only company as he lay atop the wet, stinking mattress in the deep, damp bowels of Men’s Central Jail. Water dribbled down the bricks, making the room stagnant, not to mention the ablutions bucket in the corner of the room letting out a fetid odor.   
“Hello, Hale.” Henry said in his deep English drawl; “Let’s go. You’re getting out today.”   
“Only two days this time?” Derek asked in a half-asleep voice. Cavill laughed;   
“Unless you’d prefer some more?”   
“No, thanks Sir.”   
Hale was cuffed and led back to general population, but not before a note was slipped into his pocket.   
“Some contemplative reading material.” Cavill jeered.   
Back in his cell, Derek took out the crumpled rag of paper.   
Remember our deal.   
Fiona Goode’s florid penmanship was a dead giveaway. 

There was to be no exercise in the yard that night, as Fiona Goode wanted everyone in their cells as early as possible to begin screening the movies, and it was to be a quiet night for a change. She’d arranged it to go perfectly to plan.   
Derek rejoiced in the icy blasts of water in the showers, the filth and damp of solitary washing off him in long black streaks. He couldn’t help but notice he was being given a wide berth from the other inmates. Originally, he thought it was because of the stink after two days “in the hole”, but afterward remembering his dealings with the two Southside Creepers. He grinned to himself.   
Good news travels fast.   
Wolfing down what appeared to be some attempt at a meat and potato pie, Shawn hurriedly told Tom of his news. He sat with bated breath, his eyes widening as Shawn regaled him of his meeting with Cavill.   
“Are you out of your mind?!” he growled; “I told you on your very first day that Jonas is Cavill and LaLaurie’s golden boy! Why the fuck didn’t you listen?”   
Shawn attempted to recall the conversation; “But, Chief Cavill was really helpful. He’s helped me lodge an official complaint!”  
Tom shook his head disbelieving at the young Canadian’s stupidity; “For your own sake, I hope you’re right.”   
Stiles appeared, sullen-looking.   
“Great dinner huh?”   
Slamming his tray down, the one crusty looking bread-roll bouncing from it. He sat down dejectedly, his stomach screeching in agony.   
“I swear to God, I’m gonna die in here. If Derek doesn’t get me, malnutrition sure will.” He groaned. Shawn peered around to check for guards before lifting his shirt.   
“Here.” He motioned under the table. Stiles’ whisky eyes peered at him with cautious distrust before lowering them to the three rapidly browning bananas. His jaw dropped;   
“Canada, what the fuck?!” he whispered.   
“Well, take them.” Shawn smiled; “I went to a lot of trouble to steal them for you.”   
Stiles grabbed them quickly and shoved them up his shirt, his eyes dancing with excitement.   
“Thank you!” he said, notes of dumbfounded shock mingling with gratitude. His jaw remained wide, a smile on his face for the first time in days; “Well, well. We’ll make a criminal of you yet, Canada.” 

The cork popped from the champagne bottle with a startling bang, much to the shock of Delphine LaLaurie.   
“All the inmates are in their cells now, Ma’am.” She said.   
Fiona Goode poured herself a glass of the vibrant, golden Dom Perignon and took another drag of her Marlboro Light.   
“Very good.” she replied, as she extended the bottle in Delphine’s direction; “Champagne?”   
“No, thank you Ma’am, I don’t imbibe.”   
Fiona cocked her head; “Suit yourself. You know, Delphine, Halloween is my favorite holiday, and I’m the baddest witch in town.”   
She smiled a wicked smile and took a sip of champagne.   
Fiona locked her office door behind Delphine and began to position herself in front of the huge TV screen in her office, where she planned to spend the night. She sang quietly to herself as she cut her cocaine.   
“In the land of Gods and Monsters, I was angel. Living in the garden of evil…”   
The song had been stuck in her head for days. She was unsure of where she’d heard it.   
“No one’s gonna take my soul away, I’m livin’ like Jim Morrison. Fuck yeah, give it to me, this is heaven, what I truly want, is innocence lost…” 

The prison store was raking in money that night, selling candy and popcorn galore. The old man who ran it, Morty, was almost breaking a sweat for the first time in years.   
Stiles approached the desk, ravenous.   
“Hey, Morty! Two bags of your finest sweet popcorn.”   
Morty’s face dropped; “Oh, erm…Stiles…you know, I, ah, kinda can’t serve you.”   
Stiles was taken aback, an eyebrow raised; “Halloween jokes? At our age? I’m your best customer, man!”   
Morty’s dark eyes lowered; “Sorry, man. Warden says all these sweets and sugar is messing with your ADHD, she says I can’t serve you no more.”   
Stiles’ heart sank, and his eyes lowered as he walked away; “Thanks anyway, dude.” 

The screen flickered into life as the iconic soundtrack to John Carpenter’s Halloween began to echo through the cell block. Tom and Shawn sat cross-legged on the top bunk, a bag of popcorn between them, and for once, they felt like normal young men, even if only for a short while.   
Stiles had devoured the bananas in record time, cheering with every mouthful and thanking his lucky stars that Shawn wasn’t as simple and stupid as he first seemed. When the lights flickered out and the screen flickered on, he hunkered down on his top bunk. Derek lay below, reveling in comfort, grateful for the scratchy blankets and thin mattress after his time in solitary, the small comforts feeling like bliss. The opening credits were interrupted by Stiles.   
“You know, Derek?”   
“What?”   
“I never…erm…never got to thank you for the other night.”   
Derek sighed; “So?”   
“Well…erm…thanks.”   
Taken aback by Stiles’ candidness, Derek didn’t know how to respond.   
“Don’t mention it.”   
As the terrifying opening scene began, Stiles felt a slight stir from below, and a faint rustling. The rickety steel ladder creaked with Derek’s weight as his eyes appeared at Stiles’ level.   
“I can’t see worth a damn from down there. Room at the top?”   
Stiles gave him the “side-eye”: “Does it matter if I say “no”?”   
“Not really. Squish over.”   
Derek climbed into the bunk and threw a bag in Stiles’ direction; “Peace offering.”   
Stiles had never looked at a bag of popcorn like he was in love with it before but supposed there was a first time for everything. 

The keys rattling in the door startled the boys, and the steel door screeched open, flooding the room with the light of the cell block. Henry Cavill’s colossal frame appeared.   
“Mendes, I need you to come with me.”   
“What for, Sir?” he asked.   
“It’s to follow up on your complaint earlier, I need a few more details to send to the warden. Don’t bother with your shoes, we won’t be gone long enough.”   
Shawn nodded and clambered down, following the Deputy Chief.   
“See you soon, Tommy.”   
Padding through the prison in his socked feet, Shawn was in an optimistic mood. With his complaint, he’d be able to stop Jonas from hurting anyone else, including Tom.   
“I just wanna say thanks up front for taking me seriously, and listening, Sir.” He said. The guard smiled.   
“Yeah, don’t mention it. It’s what we’re here for.”   
They approached a long corridor Shawn was sure he’d never seen before. Swathed in the murky green light, the corridor stank of mildew and neglect. They got halfway down before Cavill approached a heavy closed door. Rattling his keys, he opened it with a rusty creak, and a cavernous echo.   
“We’ll just get some privacy.” He said; “After you.”   
He gestured for Shawn to enter, and he did, with a small smile on his face.   
That smile was wiped away as he entered the cavernous stone room and was met with the dark, furious eyes of Nick Jonas. The door slammed behind him, long after he realized he was set up. 

Fiona felt the familiar, burning chemical rush as the cocaine sped into her system. What was left of the line, she rubbed on her gums, the salty, distinctive taste harsh against the taste of champagne in her mouth. She was only half paying attention to the movie when the sounds began. They were hushed, from somewhere below her, muffled by the thick stone walls. She lit a cigarette and reclined in her chair as the screams of anguish from below grew louder. 

“Oh, God! Please stop! Pleeeease!”   
Shawn Mendes had never been in a physical fight before. Certainly not against a guard with a nightstick and a serious grudge. Nick Jonas’ face was contorted in a mix of furious anger and venomous enjoyment as Shawn lay buckled on the floor, his nose bloody and tears streaming.   
“This.” Jonas said, pointing his nightstick in Shawn’s face; “is for squealing.”   
He landed a kick in Shawn’s ribs with his steel-toed boot, making Shawn roar and recoil in agony, much to Jonas’ delight. He followed the squirming inmate. “This,” he continued; “is for stealing food.” He landed another, even harder kick to the small of Shawn’s back, causing him to splutter and groan, sobbing on the filth-laden floor, his sobs kicking up a mist of black grime and dust.   
“And this…” he growled, grabbing Shawn by his crown of curly, dark hair. “This is for me.”   
The vicious guard held a sheet of paper in front of Shawn, who, through blurred, tear-streaked vision, recognized his own handwriting on the complaint form from earlier.   
“Open wide!” Jonas laughed as he rammed the paper into Shawn’s open mouth, crushing it in to gag the younger man, whose muffled cries for mercy fell silent as the paper began to disintegrate in his mouth, mingling with the taste of his own blood trickling down the back of his throat. 

Stiles and Derek both reached for the popcorn, their eyes glued to the TV as Jamie-Lee Curtis ran through the darkened house, determined to hide from the encroaching Michael Myers.   
Tom was too pent up to focus on the movie, pacing in a small circle in the cell. His heart was palpitating, as he knew exactly what was being done to his friend.   
Fiona Goode poured herself another glass of champagne and lit another cigarette, as she re-lived Halloween. She’d seen it at a drive-in the year of its release, and it brought back good memories of the young date she’d had then. She had never quite seen the ending and was naturally curious. 

 

“Trick or treat!”   
Jonas’ sing-song voice terrified Shawn as his hands were cuffed painfully behind his back, the young guard sitting on his chest, his dark eyes beaming. Reaching his fingers into Shawn’s mouth, he grabbed the half-melted complaint form and threw it to the ground, his face twisting into a smile. Grabbing at his belt buckle, he popped his fly and his long, thick manhood sprang from below, making Shawn gulp at the sheer size of his hard, pulsating cock.   
“No, please.” He whispered, his mouth dry and chest heaving under Jonas’ weight. Nick laughed an evil sneer, before spitting in Shawn’s face.   
“You’re gonna fucking love this!” 

Shawn’s mouth was full of Nick’s hot, hard meat, which pounded at his throat, triggering his gag reflex, making him cough and splutter, while tears streamed from his face as his nose was buried deep in Jonas’ thick public hair. He thrusted harder and faster, grunting and panting, his body writhing and sweating as Shawn squirmed beneath him, his big brown eyes begging.   
“Oh, Jesus, oh…fuck!”   
Jonas spewed ropes of hot, creamy come into Shawn’s mouth, who grimaced at the salty taste, gagging and retching as it spilled from his lips all over his cheeks. Nick thrust a couple more times before rolling off, his breathing short and ragged, grunting as his hard cock began to soften. Shawn sobbed on the floor, semen and spit rolling down his face. Jonas looked over, clearly amused.   
“Well, well, well…” he sighed, eyeing the tightness in Shawn’s jumpsuit; “Looks like I’m not the only one who enjoyed that!” 

 

Tom leapt from the bed as the cell door opened and Shawn poured in, a wicked smile on Cavill’s face as he pulled the door shut again.   
“Pleasant dreams, boys.” He said chipperly as the door slammed shut just as the credits for Halloween began to roll.   
“Fucking hell,” Tom whispered, “Go sit down, I’ll get something to clean you up.”   
“It’s…it’s a-alright, I-I’ll b-be alright.”   
Tom sighed; “It wasn’t a request, go sit on that top bunk. Get out of your clothes. I won’t look at you, mate. I’m straight, remember?”   
Shawn let his jumpsuit slip to the floor, revealing a patchwork of mottled purple bruises. He slowly ascended the ladder and threw himself on the top bunk, his body racked with sobs.   
Tom climbed up moments after, a hot, wet towel in hand and a small bowl which had formerly housed his sweets. As the opening credits of Texas Chainsaw Massacre rolled, Tom dabbed at Shawn’s swollen, bloody nose and puffy cracked lips with the hot water and the towel. Shawn grimaced as the hot water stung his fresh, bruising wounds.   
“I’m sorry,” Tom whispered; “I know it hurts. I’m sorry. I know it hurts.”   
Hard, silent sobs erupted from Shawn as his tears began to stream. He pulled Tom into a tight embrace, his head leaning on Tom’s taut shoulder, his breath weak in his chest.   
“I’m s-s-so a-ashamed!” he sobbed. 

As Leatherface battered his first victim over the head with a sledgehammer, Stiles glanced over at Derek, who was transfixed.   
“I never got to watch horror movies as a kid.” Derek said; “Truth be told, I never actually even got to celebrate Halloween.”   
Stiles raised his eyebrows; “Really? Well, the media should have been stumped as to why you became a serial killer.”   
“What are you talking about?” Derek asked, without taking his eyes off the screen. They both lay on their bellies, hands under their chins, as if it were a slumber party.   
“Well,” Stiles continued; “Don’t they enjoy pinning the blame on violence in movies and video games? Did you listen to much Marilyn Manson growing up?”   
Derek smiled slightly; “If you have a point here, Stiles, make it.”   
“Why are you a serial killer?”   
Derek looked genuinely taken aback at the brutal honesty Stiles had shown and thought it best to reciprocate.   
“I’m not, since you ask.”   
Stiles laughed; “You’re now about to tell me you’re innocent?” he asked sarcastically. Derek shook his head.   
“No, the correct term for me is “Spree Killer”. See, serial killers take what you call a “cooling off period”, I didn’t. I killed all of them the same day. Three guys, two girls. It was your father’s bungling investigation that didn’t find them all the same day.”   
Stiles’ jaw dropped in disbelief; “Why’d you do it? Because you could?”   
Derek glanced at Stiles; “You really didn’t pay attention to my court case at all, other than your own little cameo, did you?”   
“A lot of details, my Dad wouldn’t tell me.”   
“Stiles, those five people killed my family.” 

“Listen, mate. It’s a biological function, it doesn’t mean a fucking thing.”   
Shawn’s tears had dried, and Tom had patched him up as best he could. His bleeding had stopped thankfully. He clutched the bloody toilet paper as if his life depended on it.   
“Think of it this way,” Tom continued, “he punched you. You didn’t want him to, but you still bled, right? It’s the same thing, he molested you, you got hard, it’s a natural reaction. Don’t beat yourself up about it.”   
“H-he’s gonna think I…enjoyed it, or something!”   
“The thing is, Shawn. I know you didn’t, and you know you didn’t. Fuck him, and fuck what he thinks. When we get out of here, we’re gonna make sure, you and I, that that fucking bastard pays for all his evil.”   
Shawn smiled as Tom embraced him deeply. “Now,” he said, “we’ve got popcorn to eat, and movies to watch. Picture yourself chasing him with a chainsaw.”   
Shawn laughed, and they got back to the movie. 

Her vision blurry, Fiona drained the last drop of her champagne straight from the bottle and crushed out her cigarette clumsily in the ashtray. The couch in the corner of her office was to be her bed for the night, and she stumbled toward it, kicking off her Jimmy Choo’s on the way and throwing herself down as Sally Hardesty screamed, blood-drenched in her getaway, as Leatherface roared his chainsaw high into the Texas sunset.   
Shawn Mendes, bruised and battered, fell asleep in the crook of Tom Holland’s arm as the opening credits to Friday the 13th rolled.   
Derek Hale lay awake, long after the final movie had ended. He lay in the darkness, Stiles snoring next to him. The young man was sleeping on his shoulder, putting his left arm numb. Derek didn’t mind, the boy seemed peaceful. But there would be no sleep for Derek Hale tonight, only haunting flashbacks of a life torn away.


	13. Fire Meet Gasoline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Shawn meets an unlikely ally, and makes a promise to himself. Stiles and Derek grudgingly get closer. Fiona Goode has a plan.

Derek Hale awoke to the smell of smoke, his nose and eyes burning. He gasped for air, shivering in a cold sweat as he leapt from the bed. Stiles awoke beside him with a start, eyes struggling and his voice croaky.   
“What the hell?”   
Derek sat on the edge of the bed, panting and breathless, his heart thundering in his chest as the blood orange dawn flickered through the barred window of their cell.   
Stiles leaned up on his elbows; “You sound like you’re gonna have a heart attack, dude. The whole bed’s vibrating.”   
“I’m fine.” Derek snapped. “Leave me alone.” 

Shawn had awoken early, the pain of his attack still raw and visceral. Tom snored lightly next to him. He slowly moved, turning over, wincing at the pain in his ribs from the steel toe of Jonas’ boots. He lay awhile facing the barred window, where a lone pigeon sat, illuminated as fierce splinters of orange pierced the inky blackness of the California night. He’d always loved to watch the sun rise. He’d often wake up in the middle of the night when his anxiety was bad and would sit in his bedroom window watching the pale light of dawn begin to break through and destroy the last vestiges of night. It was peaceful, full of promise, and calmed his quickened heartbeat and rattling nerves.   
Watching it through prison bars had quite a different effect. It used to make him think anything was possible. He could seize the day and all its fresh, wondrous opportunities. Would that be the day he wrote a new song? The day a talent scout discovered him? Or maybe even just a day to sit alone in his sweatpants, content in the silence.   
Now, his mind raced to very different possibilities. Would this be the day he’d get shivved in the dining room? The day he’d be raped in the showers? Or perhaps the day a gang would call on him and kick him to death if he refused to join them. As the light of day broke on that first day of November, Shawn Mendes watched that little wood pigeon spread its wings and fly off into the daybreak and did something he hadn’t done since he was a little boy. He clasped his hands in a prayer. Tears formed in the corners of his big, hazel eyes. He pushed them away, refusing to shed one more tear for this godforsaken place. The pain in his face and body was overwhelming, waves of bruised agony and searing cuts made him vibrate with anger and hurt.  
“You ok, mate?” Tom croaked as he awoke. The Canadian’s voice was shaky, but his teeth gritted in steely determination.  
“As God is my witness,” he whispered; “I’m going to get out of here. Whatever I have to do to survive in here, I’ll live through this and one day, I’m gonna fly my ass right outta here. I don’t care if I have to beg, steal, lie or kill. I’m gonna get through this and just like a little bird, I’m gonna fly away from here.”   
Tom smiled, his face sincere, putting a hand on his friend’s shoulder; “I don’t doubt it, mate.”

“Guess we’re finally twins. What the hell happened to you?”   
Stiles sat down opposite Shawn, his bruises almost healed and almost no swelling. Shawn, on the other hand, could not hide his busted, semi-swollen lip and bruised nose. He shook his head as he continued eating his breakfast.   
“It’s nothing, just a scratch or two.”   
“Sure. Why not?” Stiles retorted sarcastically as he eyed the bread roll on his tray; “I cannot get over this lavish sustenance I’m suddenly being served and can’t help but wonder what motivations are behind it.”   
“You think they’re intentionally starving you?” Tom asked, his mouth full of grease-dripped bacon.   
“No, I think they’re using my food as foreign aid to the Sudan.” He replied, face deadpan. “It’s Warden Goode, she’s doing it to settle some kinda grudge.”   
Shawn nodded; “Seems like everyone has some kind of agenda in here.”   
Stiles raised an eyebrow; “Well, who pissed on your maple syrup drizzled pancakes this morning, Canada? Where’s the happy-go-lucky “go to the guards” guy I’m used to?”   
Shawn grimaced as Nick Jonas entered the room. He turned back to Stiles.   
“I went to the guards.” 

Fiona Goode applied the finishing touches to her makeup, hiding the effects of the previous night as she sat in her plush living room, its sparse white walls, overstuffed furniture and roaring log fire making it reminiscent of the grand, exuberant Fiona. Her laptop was set up in front of her, and the call began to come in.   
Fiona had always despised the Board of Directors, most of all Chairwoman of the Board, Cecily Pembroke, who sat at the top of the table, peering down her horn-rimmed spectacles at Fiona through the video link.   
“Let it be taken down,” she said in her clipped, upper-class tone; “meeting commenced at 11:29am on this, November 1st. All required to be present are here.”   
Fiona rolled her eyes, she’d always loathed upper-class bureaucrats and their obsession with pedantries.   
“Warden Goode,” she continued; “The results of your latest progress report have been submitted and finalized. There are several crucial areas where your leadership of Men’s Central Jail must be called into question. Without consulting us, you have agreed to an influx of another 156 prisoners in the coming year, despite being already massively overcrowded.”   
“May I point out,” Fiona said bluntly; “That those prisoners are being transferred to me under a court-ordered reorganization scheme by the state of California in an attempt to ease overcrowding, and I am looking to transfer some of my inmates elsewhere.”   
“Be that as it may,” Pembroke continued; “In an article dated July 6th of this year, Men’s Central has been voted one of the worst prisons in the United States under your leadership. The report talks at length about your guards brutalizing the prisoners, only this year there have been five deaths in the prison. You have failed to pass a hygiene test; security systems are outdated, and you’ve failed update any area of Men’s Central in over a decade. Finally, your reoffending rates far outweigh your ability to rehabilitate your prisoners.”   
Fiona scoffed; “Says who? Myrtle Snow? If she and her “Mindfulness” teams spent more time actually treating the inmates rather than her goddamn spiritual mumbo-jumbo we might not have these issues.”   
“Warden Goode, may we remind you that in your massively overpaid contract, you have agreed to take an active role in inmate rehabilitation. Your release rates are lacking substantially, only 12 prisoners in the last seven months have been released, and you stand at over 200% overcrowded. You must do more, otherwise your leadership of Men’s Central will be at an end.” 

There wasn’t much down-time allowed at Men’s Central Jail. The two hours between finishing the day’s work, showering and dinner could be spent in one of two places, the yard or the gym. The work was long and grueling, and sometimes there was little to go around due to the overcrowding, so certain inmates were shipped out to other areas of the prison. Shawn was this particular day, cuffed and led to the South Block. His stomach lurched when he was told. Tom had told him that that was the block which housed the worst of the worst, and those condemned to death. Frog-marched through the bleak, stinking corridors, the robust female guard was the bearer of even worse news.   
“When you enter or leave any block, strip-searches are mandatory. So, if you have anything on you that you shouldn’t have, now would be a damn good time to cough it up.”   
Shawn shook his head; “I don’t, Ma’am.”   
“Don’t “Ma’am” me.”   
Along an infinite corridor, a cold steel wall of bars awaited. It snapped open and Shawn was passed through.   
“I’ll be back for him and the others at four o’clock.” Snapped the female guard as the steel door slammed closed again. He found himself staring into the darkest chocolate eyes he’d ever seen. The guard was surprisingly young, with a soft caramel complexion, but a cold stare. He was flanked by a much older guard, who stood with a rifle cocked in his arm.   
Shawn was taken by the arm and led into a bare holding area, where he was uncuffed and ordered to strip. He did so slowly, revealing his pale flesh which was now a patchwork of mottled purple bruises.   
“Ouch, looks like you’ve had quite a time of it.”   
Shawn nodded; “Yeah.”   
Stripped naked, Shawn was ordered to squat and cough, which he did, his muscles screaming in pain. His feet were raised, his testicles checked, and mouth opened by the young guard, who eyed young Shawn suspiciously.   
“What’s your name, inmate?”   
“Shawn, Sir.” He said, his face burning with humiliation.   
“Shawn, what? Klush?”   
“No, Sir. Shawn Mendes.”   
“Well, Shawn Mendes. Welcome to South Block. You’re here to help us with our cleaning and you’ll do that under our strictest surveillance. Our deputies are ordered to shoot first, ask questions later, capeesh?”   
Shawn nodded; “Yes, Sir. May I please get dressed, Sir?” 

Shawn could hear his own heartbeat in his ears as he listened to the sounds of South Block. There were cries and shouts from every direction, some close and others further away. The sound of cold steel doors slamming, and keys rattling reverberated through the cold stone rooms, along with the muffled sounds of California’s worst offenders.   
A stringy mop with a splintered handle slopped along the dimly lit stone corridor in Shawn’s hands as guards patrolled every few minutes. He’d been led down innumerable flights of stairs by the young, dark-haired guard, who relieved another at a CCTV station while Shawn began the arduous task of mopping the filth-laden hallway.   
The first cell was an empty one, a foreboding blackness behind the cold steel bars. In the second sat a man Shawn vaguely recognized. His mane of fiery red hair and thin, gaunt face reminded Shawn of the headlines a couple of years previously. This man had walked into a school campus and opened fire with an Uzi, killing thirteen. It was then that Shawn realized he was mopping Death Row.   
The “Green Mile” below his feet now swam in a murky puddle of filthy water, as the condemned inmates eyed him with suspicion. As Shawn approached the end of the long hall, keeping to the right as instructed, he could feel eyes boring into him. He turned to see Jerome Flynn staring at him through the bars. The 5’’6 pedophile serial killer had a cold, merciless stare from tiny blue eyes, sunk into his fat face.   
“Come a little closer,” he whispered menacingly; “I can smell that boy-cunt from here…so warm and so, so juicy.” He made a vulgar slurping sound and licked his lips, and a deeply unsettling feeling began to wash over Shawn, who forced his eyes back to the mop.   
His eyes glued to the floor, Shawn could hear the taunts and groans of the condemned inmate as he whispered vulgarities to him. With a sigh of relief, Shawn finally made it to the end of the corridor. As he grabbed the mop bucket to head back, he saw Flynn’s hand jerk through the bars with a grunt as hot semen splattered over his face.   
Shawn recoiled in horror, squealing before realizing what had happened. He began to retch as he wiped the sticky mess from his cheek.   
Flynn roared with laughter, semen dripping from his softening penis. Shawn leaned against the wall, retching and feeling hot bile rumble from his stomach.   
“You disgusting fuck!”   
The iron bars gave off an unearthly clang as the guard’s nightstick smacked it. His face was contorted in rage.   
“You’re gonna wish you hadn’t done that, Flynn!”   
Resisting the urge to vomit, Shawn’s eyes met those of the young guard, who extended an open pack of Kleenex. Shawn accepted gratefully.   
“Thank you.” He whispered quietly.   
“Let’s get you away from here, before that sick fuck can manage again.”   
Shawn left Death Row with the guard, the peals of Flynn’s laughter reverberating through the labyrinthine hallway. 

“You ok?”   
The young guard, whose name Shawn didn’t know, sat on a table opposite him. He’d given Shawn a glass of water, which was obviously bottled as it didn’t have the familiar grey color of the tap water. Shawn nodded.   
“Thank you, Sir.”   
The guard smiled; “This part of things takes a lot of getting used to, and some things you just learn to live with. Like psychopaths and their antics.”   
Shawn tried to smile as his churning stomach began to settle; “I don’t think I could ever get used to it.”   
“Well, you can get used to anything if you’re around it long enough. Even having serial killer spunk thrown at you.”   
The mere mention of it made Shawn queasy all over again.   
“What are you in for anyway, Mendes?”   
Shawn’s eyes lowered; “I was set up.”   
He didn’t dare say any more, he’d placed his trust in one guard and it hadn’t ended well, he was cautious not to make the same mistake twice.   
“Well, you’re just like everyone else.” The guard laughed; “Everybody in here’s innocent.”   
Shawn nodded; “I guess so, Sir.”   
He rolled his dark eyes; “Enough with the “Sir”. I’m not that old. The name’s Lautner. Taylor Lautner.” 

“I need your help.”   
Those were words seldom spoken by Fiona Goode, so Henry Cavill’s ears shot to attention.   
“With what, Warden?”   
Fiona smiled as she lit a cigarette; “I’ve had a sublime vision, of this prison being dragged out of the dark ages and focusing on rehabilitation and purification of these damned creatures within our care.”   
Cavill’s eyes lit up; “What do you have in mind?”   
“A work program.” She said, splaying papers out across her desk; “A rehabilitation program, getting these boys out into the community to work and be useful, make them feel they’ve done an honest day’s work. We’ll focus on their treatment with Myrtle Snow and her band of eccentrics a little more, and get some of these boys back into society again.”   
Henry looked over her plans and grunted a small laugh; “The Goode Plan”? Who the hell came up with that?”   
Her eyes hardened; “I did. I want this prison to be a model for all others to work towards, and I’d like you to supervise the program.”   
Henry nodded; “Of course I’d be thrilled to, Warden. However, why do I get the feeling that there’s an ulterior motive?”   
Fiona smiled; “Well, I wouldn’t call it an ulterior motive, but perhaps we can…kill two birds with one stone.” 

Four o’clock came unusually fast. Shawn had been put to work in the upper floors of South Block, where he was out of view of the other inmates. He swept and mopped the long visitation center, which was a stereotypical row of partitioned cubicles with phones on the walls. This was maximum security at its finest.   
Lautner appeared at the door; “Hey, Mendes. You can call it quits now, time to go back home.”   
As Shawn was frog-marched back toward the gates, Lautner gave him a sideways glance;   
“So, tell me, a gang give you the love-taps?”   
Even mentioning Shawn’s deep, dark bruises made him flinch. “No, Sir. A guard.”   
“Jonas, I’ll bet.” He said with an iceberg smile; “You ever wanna make short work of him, take a look into the Panopticon at around 7 some evening.”   
Shawn looked confused; “What’s a Panopticon?”   
Lautner laughed; “Look it up, man.”   
They approached the steel gate Shawn had passed through earlier, and the butch female guard was waiting for him. As Lautner cuffed him, he spoke quietly.   
“You ever need anything, you give me a call.”   
Shawn nodded; “Thank you.” 

Stiles Stilinski lay awake, the rumbles and gargles of his empty stomach didn’t allow sleep to come. For dinner he’d been served a spoonful of beans, just like the previous nights. He listened to the sound of Derek’s breathing below him, reminding him that the man below him would one day kill him, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Despite that fact, Stiles took a slight comfort in Hale’s breathing. It was a calming sound, knowledge that he wasn’t as alone in the world as it seemed. 

The fire had spread quickly in the old house. Just moments after the firecracker had been lit and pushed through the basement window, the wooden beams holding the floorboards in place had ignited and began to warp the living room floor. Flames tore through the hollow walls, and within two or three minutes, the teenagers could see the flames licking at the windows of the living room.   
Lucien and Talia Hale were first to open their bedroom door to the black cloud of smoke which had crept silently up the stairs. They screamed for their children. Laura and Cora Hale emerged from their bedroom, eyes bleary from sleep and coughing in the hot, black smoke.   
Derek Hale had awoken upon hearing the rustlings outside. Born with a keen sense of hearing, the 18-year-old Derek had listened to the mumblings and whispers three stories below, unable to make out the voices. When he heard the firecracker go off, he knew instantly what had happened.   
His Mother’s screams tore Derek from his room, and he bounded down the stairs, his lungs filling quickly with the black, fiery smoke. His eyes stung viciously and poured with water, and his lungs burned as he breathed in the sulfur-like fumes. He roared in a coughing fit, and his outstretched hands fumbled blindly in the darkness. He could hear his sister screaming.   
“Cora!”   
He tried to scream for her but no sound would come, only searing coughs from his burning lungs. He could hear the roaring of the fire, and debris beginning to fall. The old wooden house was coming apart at the seams. The floorboards were blistering under his bare feet, and he couldn’t see his family through the jet-black plumes of smoke. Stumbling through the crumbling corridor, debris crackling and falling all around him, Derek launched himself toward the stairs. The last thing he remembered was the ground giving way below him, as he was engulfed in the flames. 

Derek Hale awoke, gasping and breathless. His thundering heartbeat was deafening, his chest heaved, and fingers clutched wildly in the cold night air. Beads of sweat poured from every pore on his body as he sat bolt upright in the prison bed. He sat for a few minutes, beams of moonlight pouring through the barred window, and attempted to calm his thumping heartbeat.   
Stiles lay awake above him, listening to the “Wolf of Beacon Hills” gasp for air below.   
“I know I shouldn’t really care,” he croaked; “But are you ok?”   
“I’m fine,” Derek rasped, wheezing.   
Stiles nodded, mostly to himself. He tucked the scratchy, starched blanket closer to his face, a chill permeating the cell. He rolled his eyes at himself as he began to talk.   
“Dreams pass in time, dude.”   
He heard Derek sigh as he lay back down, head slamming against the pillow.   
“Not when its flashbacks of your own life.”   
“Yeah, maybe not, then.”   
The moments passed, a thick, awkward air of silence. Derek rolled his eyes in the bottom bunk.   
“Well, you’re curious, right?”   
Stiles scoffed; “Me? Curious? Nooooo. Nope. Not curious at all.”   
Derek laughed, a hearty chuckle. It was an unusual sound. It started as a low rumble in Hale’s chest and manifested deep and hoarse. He had a pleasant laugh, and Stiles began to smile. He realized it was the first time he’d ever heard Derek laugh.


	14. Eye of the Needle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fiona's plan begins to take shape, much to the suspicion of Myrtle Snow. Meanwhile Shawn begins to establish some plans of his own.

“You know why they let me come see you today, don’t you?”   
Stiles couldn’t meet his father’s gaze. He kept his head low and nodded.   
“It’s the anniversary of her funeral.”   
Noah Stilinski nodded; “Twelve years, where the hell does it go? I was working the double shift at the station on her actual anniversary, so I couldn’t come see you then, but I was off today.”   
Noah realized his son was off in a daze and not listening, so he cut himself short.   
“How are you, Stiles?”   
Stiles met his father’s eyes; “Just dandy, Daddy-O. How are things at the station?”   
“Your bruises have calmed down.”   
“Yeah, well my starvation hasn’t.” he glanced at the guard on the door, who looked completely disinterested. Noah Stilinski always made a point of wearing his Sherriff’s uniform when he visited Stiles, which kept the guards somewhat subdued. The boy kept his voice low.   
“They’re starving me, Dad.” His brown eyes looked weary but with a glint of panic; “They’re trying to kill me, and I don’t know what to do.”   
Noah kept his voice to a hushed whisper; “I spoke to Fiona, about putting you in with Hale. This’ll be her response.”   
“Way to go, Dad.”   
“I was trying to look out for you, Stiles.” Noah said, his light eyes sincere; “Stiles, you know if I could swap places with you even for a day I would.”   
Stiles’ whiskey eyes began to cloud; “She’d be so ashamed of me.”   
Noah’s eyes glowered at his son, and his jaw set; “Don’t you ever say that again. She’d be proud of you, boy. Do you hear me? The true testament to a man is not that he’s perfect and makes no mistakes. The true testament to a man is that when he fucks up, he cops to it and accepts his punishment. She would be very, very proud of you.” 

“You? Trying to help your prisoners?”   
Fiona Goode had always loathed the irksome Myrtle Snow. The two women sat opposite each other in Fiona’s office, Myrtle puffing on a long, brown cigarillo.   
“Must you smoke that hideous shit?” Fiona said, wafting the foul smoke away from her as she lit a Marlboro. “And yes, I have decided to take a more active role in the rehabilitation of our darling boys. I want to come away from your hippie mumbo-jumbo and make a real difference.”   
“You want to dope them up on pharmaceuticals? Take away all cognitive function from them? As if they haven’t lost enough already?”   
“If that’s what it takes.” Fiona replied coldly; “But I’d really prefer my way, get them out into the community and working, making honest workers out of themselves.”   
Myrtle Snow rolled her eyes beneath her horn-rimmed spectacles; “You have an agenda. You’ve never done anything that benefited anyone but yourself.”   
Fiona scoffed; “I have no agenda, Myrt. I just want to help them get back into the community, get this prison a little less crowded.”   
“Shame on you. I deserve better lies than this, Fiona. I’ll help in whatever way I can but fear not.” She stood up and crushed out her cigarillo; “I will get to the bottom of whatever crooked scheme you’re cooking up.”   
Fiona smiled an icy grimace; “Go to hell, Myrtle Snow.” 

Claudia Stilinski was beautiful. Her long, jet black hair was set against pale alabaster skin and dark, honey-colored eyes. Stiles inherited his upturned nose and cheeky grin from her. He remembered her raven hair blowing in the twilight winds on Huntington Beach. It was their only real family vacation. Stiles was no older than seven or eight when it happened, but he remembered it as if it were yesterday. It was late August, the tail-end of the Summer vacation. Noah had got the time off work purely by chance and whisked his wife and young son up to Huntington Beach for a week. They stayed in a small rental villa just ten minutes from the beach.   
Stiles could still remember the smell of the sea, and the golden sand glittering under the white sunlight. Fair-skinned, his Mother had caked him in suntan lotion to keep her rambunctious little boy from burning. If he tried, he could still smell its coconut aroma. The sand was hot under his feet, and he’d run to the ocean to cool them off. As a family, they’d stroll in the surf, eat ice cream cones and wait on the beach just to see the glorious sunset behind the famous pier.   
It was Stiles’ favorite memory.  
The picture had begun to curl at the edges and was warping with the effect of age. The sunset cast a bright orange glow over all their faces, as Noah and Claudia stood with their son, a massive grin on his little face.   
Tears welled in Stiles’ eyes as he held the picture, remembering that day with a quiet smile.   
“You ok?”   
Derek’s voice shocked him and brought him back to Earth with a crash. Stiles nodded, wiping a lone tear from his cheek.   
“What’s the picture?”   
Derek leapt up onto the upper bunk and nestled down next to Stiles, who still held the picture in his hand.   
“It was our vacation.”   
“Is that you?” Derek said with a slight smile, pointing to the smiling little boy in the picture; “You’ve never changed much.”   
Stiles smiled; “Yeah. It was our only vacation, Dad didn’t get much time off. That was taken at Huntington Beach. We always wanted to go on another, but Mom got sick pretty soon after that.”   
Derek nodded; a melancholy darkness in his green eyes. “My parents, the minute school finished for summer, used to grab the tents, get in the car and we’d go camping. We didn’t have the cash to go anywhere else, really. So, it was soup flasks and dig-out shitters all summer long, but I tell you, we’d always have the best time. My sisters would always play games with me, or just go exploring. We loved down by the creek in Alameda, we’d go swimming in it.” Derek smiled painfully as he recalled it.   
“What turned you into such a sour-puss, Derek?”   
His expression turned stony, his eyes unmoving; “You really wanna know?”   
Stiles nodded, an avid listener.   
“My family were murdered. A firecracker was thrown in a basement window, an alleged “teen prank gone wrong”. The house went up like a paint factory. We were all asleep. I tried to at least save one person, but there was just so much smoke, and it was so damn hot.” Derek was lost in thought, his eyes dreamy as he recalled that horrific night; “I was pulled from the ashes barely breathing, just like my sister Cora. The rest never made it.”   
“That’s why you killed those people?”   
“My family meant the world to me, Stiles. Everything I ever knew, or thought I was, died with them. What I did, I did for love.”  
“Do you think you’ll ever get out of here?” Stiles asked, seemingly from the blue. Derek shook his head.   
“No. The only way out of here for me is in a pine box. I don’t really mind, I’ve got no-one to be on the outside for.”   
Stiles lowered his head back to the picture, his Dad’s youthful, smiling face. How Stiles missed that smile, now replaced by worry lines and the fire in his eyes just a dull glimmer of its former self. Stiles stifled a sob; “I do.” 

“When are library hours?”   
Tom and Stiles looked up from their food.   
“Why the hell would you wanna know? The damn library has like seven books to its name.” Stiles said, his mouth full of the hard bread roll he’d been served for dinner.   
“Just curious is all,” Shawn said, returning to his food. Stiles choked on the bread roll.   
“I swear to God!” he said, gesturing wildly; “If you served this to the Donner party, they still would have eaten each other!”.   
Tom shook his head at the ever-exuberant Stilinski and turned back to Shawn; “Why do you wanna know about the library?”   
Shawn shrugged; “I need to find something out, it’s kinda important.”   
“Well, tell us?” Tom prodded, his brown eyes wide. Shawn kept his voice quiet.   
“I need to find out what a Panopticon is.”   
Tom shook his head; “I’m lost, mate. Not a clue.”   
Stiles dropped his bread roll, which landed with a thud. Not meeting Shawn’s eyes, he began to speak.   
“The Panopticon was an idea of Jeremy Bentham, he was this English philosopher and the Panopticon was his idea for penal reform, that if the guards could see what prisoners were doing all the time, and the prisoners knew it, they’d be less likely to engage in illegal or dangerous behaviors.”   
“Like CCTV cameras?”   
Stiles shrugged; “Kinda, the theory goes that if people think they’re being watched, they’re more likely to behave themselves. It’s like a social control theory, but Bentham was talking more like a watchtower, with all the prison cells forming a circular tower around it. There are actually prisons based on it, I think there’s one in New Jersey somewhere.”   
Shawn was dumbstruck at Stiles’ obvious intelligence, which he’d never let shine through before. He returned to his dinner, thoughts spinning around his mind. 

 

 

“What happened? Who did this to you, Shawn?”   
Karen Mendes’ face was a distorted look of worry, hurt and anger that is unique to scorned Mothers. Upon seeing her son’s bruised face, she balled her fists to avoid crying or screaming. Shawn shrugged across the table;   
“It’s nothing, Mom. It’s ok.”   
“It’s not the gangs, is it?” Karen panicked, cupping her hand to her face. Shawn shook his head.   
“No, it was just a stupid fight. Talk to me about home, about Aaliyah, about your job. Take me away from here, even just for a minute.”   
Karen nodded and straightened herself, taking a deep breath. She began to tell Shawn about Aaliyah’s glowing school report, how her teachers found her a “joy” and a “delight”. Karen had, for nearly ten years worked as a real estate agent, and was telling Shawn, who was listening attentively, about how real estate interest rates were at an all-time high and people were having trouble paying their mortgages. Her twenty-year old son paid full attention to his mother’s workplace rhetoric, maybe for the first time in his life. The one-hour visit was his chance for escape, to remember that there was life beyond the bleak walls of Men’s Central.   
As always, the visit was over far too quickly, and Shawn began to feel the crushing blow of anxiety in his chest as he saw his Mother leave him alone again. 

Shawn had always enjoyed a unique taste for clothes. His garish shirts and Cuban-heeled boots had always been a source of comfort and personal identity for him, like a visual display of his own personality. Now replaced by a heinous orange jumpsuit, which had likely housed multitudes of diverse convicts before him.   
After a small victory of being able to wear his own t-shirts under his jumpsuit, Shawn had been thrilled to learn that he’d also won the right to his own shoes for his good behavior, but his Yves Saint Laurent Cuban heels were too dangerous for prison life, so his elation to find a brand new pair of Nike sneakers on his bed was unfathomable. Karen had bought him shoes, snacks and soda. Just enough to keep his spirits up.   
“Careful with those, mate.” Tom said, eyeing the Air Max sneakers; “Some guys in here will have them off you in a hot second.”   
It was amazing to Shawn that something even as everyday as deodorant and aftershave could make all the difference. To be able to smell like himself, and have the scent take him away from the fetid odor of prison life, even for a second, was just enough to keep his mind off the edge. 

With shoelaces being banned for obvious reasons, Shawn’s new sneakers flopped a little as he walked into the dining room, armed with a small burst of self-confidence. He and Tom had both stopped dead in their tracks when they saw Stiles sitting with Derek Hale. They walked over cautiously, trays in hand. Stiles smiled when he saw them;   
“Hey, guys!” he waved; “Come, sit.”   
They both sat, with Shawn next to Derek, Tom opposite. The “Wolf of Beacon Hills” looked up, his green eyes glaring at Shawn.   
“Hello.” He said in his deep, gravelly voice. Shawn smiled tentatively.   
“Hi, I’m Shawn.”   
Derek nodded; “Those are some mean sneaks you have there, Shawn. Better be careful, there’s a lot of jealous people in here.”   
“I will, thanks.”   
Stiles’ meagre spoon of beans slapped on his tray belied a deeper meaning. He was obviously becoming a pawn in somebody’s game, and everyone knew whose. In a show of solidarity, Derek, Shawn and Tom all scraped a small portion of their food onto his tray.   
“Come on, guys! You don’t have to do that!”   
“I know,” Tom said; “But we want to.”   
Stiles pondered; “Ok, in that case fellas, load me up! I’m starvingggg!” 

The Panopticon.   
It had come to Shawn as he slept. In a rare moment of clarity, in those moments between deep sleep and stark consciousness, it had appeared like an oasis on the horizon of the bleak desert that was his mind. Stiles had mentioned it being the idea of a “watchtower”. It had been hiding in plain sight.   
The Men’s Central Watchtower stood 147 feet in the air, pointing like an arrow toward the heavens, tall, mighty and proud. A looming, omnipresent symbol that “Big Brother” was always watching. Guards stood in full uniform with their Kalashnikov rifles cocked and ready to fire at the first sign of rebellion.   
A small, glassed-in cubicle stood at the pinnacle of the tower, and from a tiny slit of a window next to the showers, Shawn could see right in. He’d had to wipe the grubby glass, but through its streaks he could see Henry Cavill standing in the tiny office. He’d dismissed the other guards from their posts. Shawn had checked the time a few minutes ago, and it was coming on to seven o’clock, just when Lautner had told him to look.   
He was sure he’d be wrong, that Deputy Lautner had given him a bum steer, or he’d mistaken himself as to what the guard had meant. He knew a guard would find him and instruct him to shower or die, so he knew he was working within a limited time scale. He’d managed to slink away from the watchful eyes and peer out of the window, but he knew he was working on borrowed time.   
Just about ready to give up hope, Shawn sighed and began to turn away. Until, he saw Jonas emerge at the top of the watchtower stairwell. His stomach ached to see the swaggering, alpha-like young guard, and it made his fresh bruises pulsate with pain, and his face flush with humiliation.   
When Nick Jonas entered the office, the two guards seemed to greet one another cordially. Shawn huffed, wondering what the hell Deputy Lautner had been talking about. That was until Cavill grabbed the younger Deputy by the head and their lips locked in a tight, unbreakable embrace.   
Shawn’s heart raced, and he gasped aloud.   
The two guards didn’t break their kiss as they began to fumble at each other’s clothing. Their big, masculine hands wandered over their black service uniforms, and their eyes remained closed as their mouths locked in a passionate display.   
Intensely ashamed, Shawn could not ignore the stirring in his own underwear as Cavill’s belt and zipper sprung open to reveal an engorged, thick manhood. Like a dutiful slave, Jonas fell to his knees and took Deputy Cavill’s full length in his mouth, seeming to revel in the older guard’s meaty cock. Shawn noticed a small, black tattoo on Cavill’s waistline. It looked like a small four-leaf clover, set slightly apart from his dark, trimmed pubic hair.   
Shawn knew it was sick, but it gave him a sinister satisfaction to see Jonas in such a position. On his knees, his cocky, grinning face full of the meat of another man. If only he was allowed a cellphone, this would have been a moment to remember.   
It was then, that for Shawn Mendes, the penny dropped.


	15. In My Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With damning evidence and an ax to grind, Shawn Mendes begins to take control of his own destiny, but every action will have potentially lethal consequences.

Help me.   
Shawn Mendes gazed at the ceiling as he lay on the floor of his cell, trying to calm the thunderous rhythm of his own heart, which pulsated in his ears. His breath came short and sharp, hyperventilating.   
He’d been diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder at the age of 15, when his panic attacks were at their peak. He could sometimes have up to three a day. The only thing that would help was when he lay naked on the bathroom floor, the cool of the tiles calming against his skin.   
He knew why the attack was happening, and he had good reason for it. In his younger days, he’d never know what could trigger a panic attack, but he knew the cause of this one, and it was more than justified.   
Tom awoke to find Shawn on the floor, his eyes closed tight, beads of perspiration on his face, and his breathing heavy.   
“You ok, mate?” he asked. Shawn nodded.   
“I’m ok, I’ll be alright.”   
They dressed for morning roll-call without talking. Tom hummed a tune, trying to break the monotonous, heavy air of silence. Finally, the English boy could stand it no longer.   
“I still think you’re crazy.”   
Shawn tried to laugh; “I guess I am, but I have to try.”   
“But Shawn, you don’t even have a proper plan. This is just some crazy wing and a prayer gamble!”   
“Sometimes you just have to gamble.”   
Tom’s face was a mask of worry. The criminally naïve Canadian was actually going through with this foolish plan. 

Shawn could feel his whole body vibrate, and his knees go weak as a deputy led him to the security office in cuffs. Sweat lashed from every pore on his young body and dripped down his face. His stomach flipped as the iron gates opened before him, and there sat Cavill, his eyes boring into Shawn with a maleficent glare.   
He was cuffed to a chair and the guard left the room. Henry Cavill smiled a wicked grin across the table as he reclined, putting his feet up on the desk.   
“And what, pray tell, can I do for you?”   
Shawn’s heart beat to another rhythm now, it was a contemptuous rhythm, full of anger and hate for the wicked, grinning Deputy Chief of Security.   
“I’d like to make a complaint.” Shawn finally replied through gritted teeth, his jaw set.   
Henry laughed, a hearty roar from the pits of his stomach which made the young Canadian jump.   
“Care for another complaint form?” he asked, his plump lips parted in a devious smile.   
“Oh no,” Shawn growled; “I want to make a complaint about married guards in powerful positions fucking younger men behind their wives’ backs.”   
Cavill rolled his piercing blue eyes; “What the fuck are you talking about?”   
Shawn smiled; “You and Jonas.”   
Cavill looked puzzled, and Shawn’s smile spread, his plump, pink lips splitting into a heartbreaking iceberg smile.   
“I know about the Panopticon.” He whispered, and Henry’s eyes widened, his smile crumbling and being replaced by a stony, hard glare. His eyes dropped to the floor as Shawn continued.   
“I saw it all, Chief. Everything you did with him. Give me one good reason I shouldn’t tell Cordelia.”   
The Deputy Chief of Security grinned as he took his feet down from the desk and let out a small chuckle;   
“And what ever makes you think she’ll believe a criminal with an ax to grind over her own husband?”   
“I can describe your perfectly manicured lawn, and I saw your tattoo, which I can describe in perfect detail. Reason enough?”  
Cavill’s glowered at Mendes, his eyes glowing a fierce electric blue. The corner of his mouth curled upward in a grimacing smile as his Smith & Wesson 9mm handgun came out of its holster and into sight. He aimed it across the table. Shawn’s brown eyes widened as he followed the barrel of the gun, which was now level with his right eye.   
“Give me one good reason I shouldn’t shoot you in the fucking face.”   
Shawn gulped; “Because others know, too. And they know I’m up here talking to you, so if anything happens to me, or I suddenly go missing, they’ll know, and they’ll tell your wife, and they’ll tell her what happened to me.” Shawn kept talking, some way to stop Henry from pulling the trigger. He prayed his lies were convincing.   
There was dead silence as Cavill considered his position. Shawn closed his eyes, and waited for the sound of the trigger, and the blast of the semi-automatic handgun, carrying the bullet that would blow half his head off. A sigh was all that came, a sigh not of resignation, but more of inconvenience came from the older guard.   
“Alright, Canada.” He said with a small, nervous laugh; “What do you want? I can get you a new cell, better food, visits? What do you want?”   
Shawn smiled; “I want a couple of assurances.”   
Cavill raised his eyebrows; “Name your price.”   
“I want Jonas fired for what he did to me, and what he did to Tom, and to God knows who else.”   
“I can’t fire him,” Cavill said shaking his head; “It’s not within my power, but I can move him to another area of the prison?”   
Shawn nodded; “That’s good enough, keep him away from me and my friends.”   
Cavill nodded; “Alright, anything else?”   
“Yes, actually. I want better food for me, Tom and Stiles. And Stiles needs to start getting food, I don’t care what grudge the warden has against him, you see that he’s fed like a Prince or Cordelia knows everything.”   
Henry nodded, obviously defeated, and he knew it.   
“Alright, I can do that.”   
“There’s just one more thing,” Shawn said, a slightly smug look on his face which both enraged and humiliated the older guard.   
“What?”   
“Cameron Dallas? He’s in this block somewhere? I want him in solitary for the foreseeable future, and I get to visit him whenever I like there.”   
“I don’t know who he is,” Cavill said, “But I’ll find out for you. Will that be all?”   
“That’s fine, yeah. For now.” Shawn said tauntingly.   
“It can’t happen overnight, you realize that. I’m going to have to implement these things over time, you’re going to have to trust me Shawn, because I will not beg.”   
The young Canadian nodded, obviously pleased with himself.   
“You do whatever you have to, Deputy Chief, and it’s been a pleasure doing business with you.”   
Shawn was uncuffed and led back down for the day’s work.  
He walked with a bounce, for the first time in months. 

“You’re alive?!”   
Tom gasped as he saw Shawn in the shower queue. Pushing forward, he approached his cellmate.   
“How did it go?!” he asked, his eyes wide.   
“Better than you were expecting, that’s for sure.”   
As they stripped to shower, Shawn noticed the bruising was starting to heal, yellow patches beginning to break the huge purple blots on his milk-like skin.   
Shawn found himself humming a low tune in the shower, something he hadn’t done for months. For once, he reveled in the icy chill of the water, washing away the helpless little boy he’d been when he first walked into Men’s Central Jail, and relishing the new feeling that washed over him with every scrub of the cold, hard water. It was a feeling he’d never been accustomed to.  
The feeling of power.

The dinner queue seemed to take an eternity, as Shawn, Tom and Stiles stood, their bellies rumbling. Derek stood off behind them, lost in deep thought. Shawn saw a guard approaching, eyes fixed on him.   
“You three,” the older guard said, beckoning to the three friends; “Go sit down, your dinner is being brought separately.”   
Stiles looked confused; “What the hell’s this about?”   
“Orders of Chief Cavill,” the guard said; “Now go sit your asses down.”   
A female guard approached, her face devoid of emotion as she carried a tray of food. She placed it down on the table and dished out the trays of food to the three jailbirds, who gasped at the sight.   
Three trays, brimming with hot Mac and Cheese and a side of fresh, hand cut fries. The trio were struck dumb.   
“Oh, my God!” Tom gasped; “How did you do this?”   
Stiles looked more confused than ever; “Canada, what the fuck did you do? Actually, I don’t care but whatever it was, keep that shit up!”   
“Enjoy, guys.” Shawn said with a self-satisfied smile as he began to dig into the creamy macaroni before him.   
As Cavill made his round, deliberately avoiding eye contact with Shawn, one nearby inmate called out.   
“How the fuck do they get that, and we get this shit?”   
Cavill banged his nightstick on the table; “Never you mind what they’re eating! Eyes front and eat your dinner.” 

Stuffed from their food, the three men walked in the yard after dinner, a cold November breeze blowing through it. The cold didn’t bother them, as their stomachs were full, and hearts were happy. Shawn regaled them in a quiet corner about his meeting with Henry Cavill.   
Stiles punched the air excitedly; “Go, Canada! You finally got one over on that tight-assed screw! You actually saw them at it in the watchtower?”   
Shawn nodded; “In glorious detail.”   
“Now at least we know who was pulling Jonas’ strings.”   
“We don’t have to worry about him anymore.” Tom said, a grin of relief on his face.   
“But,” Stiles said; “What sick plan do you have for that odious ex of yours?”   
Shawn grinned, his eyes firm; “I’m getting the fuck outta here.” 

Cameron Dallas awoke in the still of the night, to a rattling sound just beyond the door. Groggy, he leaned up on his elbows as the cell door swung open. Two guards entered, pulling him from the bottom bunk.   
“What the fuck?” he croaked as he was hauled to his feet, his muscles aching into life. A familiar figure filled the doorway, Cavill’s mighty frame locked in a powerful stance.   
“What the fuck is right.” He said in his clipped English accent; “You’ve been a very naughty boy.”   
Cameron was dragged, barefoot and half naked through the freezing prison halls, his hands cuffed tightly behind his back as he kicked and flailed, beseeching the guards.   
“I didn’t do anything! Tell me what I did! Pleeeeeeease?!”   
Shawn awoke to the howls of his ex-lover, somewhere far off in the distance, and he couldn’t help but to smile.   
I’ll show you, motherfucker.   
The basement corridors of Men’s Central were always nicknamed “Mordor, Land of Darkness” for very good reason. The fluorescent overhead lights flickered a dim glow, and the sickly green walls were damp and dark. The air was always hot, moist and sticky, with a stench of mildew and lukewarm piss.   
Cameron tried to keep a poker face, but lost it on sight of the steel door, open just enough for him to see the pitch blackness beyond it.   
“No,” he pleaded; “Please no!”   
The cuffs were undone, and he was thrown inside, the sound of rats scurrying and water dripping were to be his only companions. His screams could be heard resonating through the labyrinthine basement of Men’s Central, but nobody was around to hear him. 

The young reporter wrote quickly, her penmanship florid.   
“So, let me get this right, Warden Goode. You’re proposing to have taxpayers’ hard-earned dollars spent to let prisoners do the work that employed citizens could do?”   
Fiona shook her head in disgust as she crushed out her cigarette; “No, what I’m proposing is rehabilitation. Taxpayers’ dollars spent making more taxpayers, if you catch my meaning. I want these men to become functioning members of society again. Some of these guys have never had a job, have no employment experience, no idea what it’s like to earn an honest wage for a hard day’s work. The “Goode Plan” will set them on the right path to do just that.”   
Lydia Martin looked puzzled; “Ok,” she said, jotting down more notes; “So what kind of work exactly will the prisoners be doing?”   
“Whatever needs done,” Fiona said with a shrug; “We’re currently working with local landowners and crop farmers to see what can be done, whether its harvesting crops, chopping wood, paving a road, or milking a cow, these men will be able to turn their hands to anything.”   
Lydia flicked her flame-red hair from her eyes and continued to press Fiona, who remained calm and collected, even when the young, ambitious journalist got a little close to the bone.   
“Many will say that this is a desperate gambit to cling to your premiership in this prison. It was, after all, voted as one of the worst prisons in America. How would you respond to that?”   
Fiona smile icily, lighting another cigarette; “We have had our share of troubles, nobody more so than the men incarcerated within these walls. It will be good for them to get out into the community and feel they have done some good, if not for themselves then for others. This has nothing to do with me, but everything to do with them.” 

Fiona despised Lydia Martin. The young, whip-smart journalist had derided Men’s Central since she started working at the L.A Times. Countless articles had been written denouncing the treatment of inmates and the brutality of Fiona Goode’s totalitarian regime.   
“I really would enjoy suing that rag of a newspaper.” Fiona scoffed over a mid-afternoon gin and tonic. Delphine LaLaurie pouted angrily.   
“The little bitch mentioned me in one of her last articles,” she growled; “Besmirching my good name in some self-serving article about police brutality.”   
Fiona smiled wickedly as she remembered the article, which referred to Delphine as a “butch, portly screw with a grim demeanor”.   
Fiona shivered in her vast, airy office.   
“Stoke that fire a little more, Delphine. And be sure to check that no prisoners have died of exposure, the last thing we need is more press on our asses.” 

“You think you can just get rid of me? Just like that? On account of some twink Canadian cunt?!”   
Nick Jonas’ eyes were wild with fury, his teeth bared and voice hoarse. Henry Cavill sighed.   
“Nicky, I know its…”   
“Don’t call me that!” barked the younger guard; “You don’t get rid of me so easy.”   
Henry rolled his blue eyes; “Nick, you don’t understand. He’s going to tell Cordelia everything! I can’t let that happen. She’ll leave me this time for sure.”   
Nick Jonas shrugged; “And that’s my problem because?”   
“Nick, please be reasonable! I can’t lose my wife.”   
Jonas smiled malevolently; “Am I supposed to feel sorry for you or something? Am I supposed to be touched by your loving devotion to her? You forget everything you’ve ever said to me? “Oh Nicky, she doesn’t know me like you do! She doesn’t make me feel the way you do!” You’re so full of shit, Henry! You’ve built this house of cards all by yourself, and now you wanna make my life miserable because you can’t handle the consequences of your own actions!”   
“It’s not forever, Nick. It’s just until I find a solution to all this shit.”   
Nick laughed in his face, his dark eyes twinkling with anger and hate.  
“Well fuck you, I’m not going to beg.” Cavill snapped.  
Nick scoffed; “Oh, yes you will. You know what? I’ll take your shitty offer, I’ll go to South Block. But you,” he said, pointing in Henry’s face; “will deliver Mendes to me as and when I decide.”   
Henry gasped; “Nick, I can’t! He’ll tell my wife!”   
Nick laughed; “Not my problem, Henry!” he stood up from his chair and leaned over Cavill’s desk, a cruel smile playing on his lips; “You’ll deliver Mendes to me, or I’ll tell Delia myself. And you think Mendes can describe a tattoo to her? Just think about when I tell her how sweet I know your jizz tastes? How you always wanna tongue my asshole before fucking it? Or even about that cute little scar on your left ass-cheek from where that man belted you so hard you bled?”   
Henry stood up and slammed against the table, his neck bulging and teeth gritted in a furious rage.   
“Get. Out. Of. My. Office.”   
Nick snorted a laugh; “See you later, Henry. I’ll call you real soon.” 

The steel door screeched open, and a beam of fluorescent light filled the inky blackness. Cameron Dallas’ eyes squeezed shut against the harsh light. As they began to accustom, the silhouette began to take shape. His ex-lover stood in the doorway, which was left open just a crack.   
“Shawn,” he croaked; “Thank God! You gotta get me out of here!”   
A laugh was the answer; “You think I’m here to rescue you?”   
“Did you do this? Shawn, get me out of here!” he demanded, sitting up on the soaking, vile mattress on the floor.  
The tiny, cramped cell stunk of mildew and the unmistakable stench of fresh urine.   
“I don’t think you’re in any place to be making demands, Cam.” Shawn taunted, stepping deeper into the cell, the dim crack of light perfectly showcasing the look of anger and fear in his ex’s brown eyes. “Tell the truth about that night, Cameron, and you’ll get out of here.”   
Cameron was incensed; “Fuck you!” he hissed.   
Shawn tutted; “Bad move, Cam. You just bagged yourself a week in here to think things over.”   
“I’m not scared of you, Shawn!”   
The door opened, and Shawn left, the taunting roars of his ex-boyfriend hot on his heels.   
“Let me outta here, Shawn! Let me out you little fucker!” 

“A week? Jesus, you’re punishing him, alright.”   
Shawn nodded as he and Tom waited for Stiles to join them at the dinner table.   
“He got me 8 to 10 years in here, I think a week’s pretty reasonable.”   
Stiles bounced across the dining room to them, his usual hyperactive self.   
“I am so ready for this! I’m wasting away!”  
The food came courtesy of a guard again, and tonight lay two steak (vegetable for Stiles) burgers with blue cheese and sweet potato fries.   
“I tell you,” Tom said, his mouth full of the juicy burger; “I could get used to this!” 

“How in hell’s name did you go from starvation to suddenly being fed like royalty?”   
The envy was clear in Derek’s voice. As a man who loved his food, he detested the vile concoctions he was served on a nightly basis, and their meagre portions. He and Stiles lay in their respective bunks, chilling before lights out.   
“Canada came through for us, boy’s not as dumb as he looks.” Stiles said, fidgeting with a deck of cards in his hands. “Fancy a game of cards?”   
“I don’t know how to play.”   
Stiles rolled his eyes; “Ok, I’ll teach you.”   
He clambered down to Derek’s bunk and began to teach him the basic rules of Blackjack.   
“So,” Derek said; “What did the boy do to get you that kinda food?”   
“He caught Mr. Cavill fucking Deputy Jonas, and now he’s blackmailing him.”   
Derek let out a small squeak of a laugh; “Ha! You’re serious?”   
“Yeah, he said they were totally at it in the watchtower!”   
“That’s not a surprise, but that little pipsqueak blackmailing someone?”   
“What’s funny about that?”   
“Are you kidding?” Derek said, laughing a hearty chuckle; “Big, bad Cavill being blackmailed by Little Miss Muffet? It’s a riot!”   
Soon, the two men were creased on the bottom bunk, holding their stomachs, their sides in stitches from the peals of laughter escaping them. 

There was a contented silence in Shawn and Tom’s cell, as they both lay in their respective bunks, snacking on chips and relaxing. Shawn tried to read a book but found himself too restless. He’d made a conscious decision not to die in here, or to let this place get the better of him, and was making good on that promise, but somehow, he knew, deep within his gut that there was bound to be repercussions for his actions. And no matter what he was doing, or how good he felt about his progress, it still felt like the walls were caving in.


	16. Mercy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom is faced with a devastating choice. Cameron longs for Shawn's forgiveness, but his redemption will come at a heavy price.

“You’ll be glad to know, Shawn, that your appeal was granted yesterday.”   
Shawn’s jaw dropped, elation washing over him as Cordelia sat opposite him, a smile on her face.   
“We’re set for a March 6th preliminary hearing.”   
His face crumpled; “March? That’s like, forever away.”   
Cordelia shook her head; “In the California justice system, nothing’s done overnight. It’ll pass in no time, we’re already in the middle of November! Trust me, it’ll feel like no time at all. One thing we have to do is find material witnesses. We know you were set up that night, but with nobody to testify on your behalf, we’re kinda screwed.”   
Shawn shook his head, his voice thick with determination; “I’ll get someone to testify.” 

It’s amazing what sensory deprivation can do to a person’s mind and body. Deprived of sight, and of sound. It begins as early as 30 minutes in, with the loss of all concept of time. Then come the hallucinations, auditory and visual. Some people report feeling “an evil presence” in the room with them.   
Cameron Dallas sat huddled in a corner, sour water trickling down the filth-caked walls at his every side. He no longer noticed the stench of his own waste, which had fallen in the general direction of the bucket in the corner of the room. He’d devoured his bread like a wild beast from his filth-laden hands, and his quaking muscles had spilled water all over himself.   
His knees drawn up to his chest, he rocked back and forth, his head swaying and voice low, grumbling and rasping. His filthy hands were clasped tight to his chest as he spluttered the invocation of the Virgin Mary.   
“Hail Mary, full of grace,   
The Lord is with thee,   
Blessed art thou amongst women,   
And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.   
Holy Mary, Mother of God,   
Pray for us sinners,   
Now and at the hour of our death. Amen.” 

“It might be a little bit of a shock to see him.” Cavill warned; “Sensory deprivation has a lot of side effects. If he tries to hit you, get out of there quick.”   
“Are the effects permanent?” Shawn asked as they walked down the hallway; “I don’t wanna drive him to an institution or anything.”   
Cavill smiled; “They’ll wear off eventually. That’s why we only keep people in solitary for two days at most.”   
“Shit, why didn’t you tell me that?”   
“I’ve got to be nice to you right now, so I let you have whatever you asked for.”   
Shawn braced himself as the key turned in the lock.   
“I’ll be right here.” Cavill said, as the door swung open.

“Hail Mary, full of grace,   
The Lord is with thee,   
Blessed art thou amongst women,   
And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.   
Holy Mary, Mother of God,   
Pray for us sinners,   
Now and at the hour of our death. Amen.” 

The fetid stench caught Shawn unawares, almost burning his nose and making his eyes water. Moldy bread lay scattered around the damp, filthy floor at Shawn’s feet, and the distant sound of rats scurrying filled him with dread. As his eyes accustomed to the half-light, he could make out the vague outline of where Cameron sat, rocking, repeating whispered “Hail Mary’s” like a madman.   
“Cameron?” Shawn said timidly  
His head snapped upright, his brown eyes wildly searching. He gasped pitifully.   
“Shawnie?” he croaked, his muscles screeching in agony as he crawled to the feet of his ex-lover. He grabbed Shawn’s legs, shivering and pleading. “You came for me!” he wheezed.   
“Cam, we need to talk. I want to get you out of here, but you’ve got to help me.”   
Cameron’s breaths were short and rapid, almost hyperventilating as he clung desperately to Shawn’s legs, his brown eyes shut tight.   
“Please, please, Shawnie. Get me out.”   
“I want to Cameron, but you need to help me.”   
“How?”   
Shawn’s voice was firmer than he expected it to be; “Tell the truth.” He demanded; “Tell the real truth.”   
Tears trickled from Cameron’s eyes as he stared up at Shawn, his scraggly, greasy hair and unkempt stubble making him barely recognizable.   
“Shawnie,” he croaked; “You don’t know what they’ll do to me.”   
Shawn sighed, his patience wearing thin.   
“Do you know what I’ll do to you, Cameron? I’ll leave you down here to rot. That’s right, I’ll tell the guards to throw away the key, and you’ll stay down here for good with the rats and the sewage.”   
Cameron tightened his grip, clinging to Shawn for dear life, his head buried deep in his groin; “I’ll do anything you say,” he sobbed, tears streaming down his face; “Whatever you want.”   
“You’re sure about that?  
“Anything!” he wailed plaintively, his body racked by convulsive sobs; “Please, please, I’ll do whatever you say. Piss on me, feed me glass! Do whatever you want, just please let me out of here! Pleeeeeease!”   
It was only in this moment that Shawn quite realized how young Cameron was, when he was bawling like a child, begging for mercy.   
“Mr. Cavill!” Shawn called; “Let’s get him out of here.”   
Cavill entered, and together, they raised the sniveling Cameron to his feet, taking an arm each, and pulled him from the cell.   
“Jesus, he stinks!”   
Shawn smirked; “Wouldn’t you?”   
Cameron gasped when they went into the light, his eyes burning with the bright light of liberation. He clung to Cavill and Shawn, unsteady on his feet, filthy and bedraggled.   
“Thank you, Shawnie. Thank you, thank you, thank you.” 

“Fuck, sounds like you broke him.”   
Tom and Stiles sat, mouths agape, as Shawn regaled them of his time down in solitary with Cameron. Stiles scoffed; “Well, whaddaya know? Canada’s got a mean streak! But what are you gonna do now that he’s back with his goons?”   
Shawn shook his head; “I told Cavill to give him a single cell in a different block. He’s been given a shower and food, and I’m gonna let him sleep on things, but I’ll be paying him a visit tomorrow.”   
“Yeah,” said Stiles, eyeing the table in the corner of the gargantuan dining hall; “That’s if the Creepers don’t pay you a visit first.” 

 

“Where’s our homeboy, motherfucka?!”   
Tom stood trembling, his back against the wall in the prison laundry. He remained firm, his jaw set.   
“Do people actually talk like that?” he said with a smirk. The three Creepers stared him down, their faces hard.   
“You gonna tell us? Or we gonna have to make you sing it, you lippy lil’ cunt?”   
Tom gulped. He was alone, and unarmed, with three Latino men crowding him against the wall.   
“I don’t know,” he whispered. “I honestly don’t have a clue!”   
The ringleader smirked, a gold tooth on display in his hollow, pock-marked cheeks.   
“Nah, but I bet you’re lil’ cunt roommate knows somethin’? Boy walking around here like he’s the Queen of England, we all seen your fancy lil’ dinners, he got them guards right where he wants ‘em. You’re gonna find Cameron Dallas, you’re gonna let us know where he is, and we’ll let you live. And if you’re roomie has done anything to him, we gonna do the same to you.”   
“W-why me?” Tom stammered, making the gangsters smirk.   
“You think we forgotten why you’re in here? You sold dope for us, and Mambo don’t forget people so easily. She remembers your Mama well, and we still know where she live. You wanna protect her, too? You’ll do as your told.”   
Ice-cold fear struck deep in Tom’s core at the mention of Mambo. He nodded vigorously.   
“Alright, I’ll do it.” 

Cameron Dallas clutched his rosary beads close to his chest as he sat on his bunk, knees drawn up to his chest. He’d been taught to pray the rosary by his Catholic mother and devout Mexican grandmother but had never truly practiced it in his adult life, until now. Now when he needed God more than ever. His new cell was quiet and empty, isolated in a remote area of the prison he didn’t recognize. His personal effects had been thrown haphazardly into the cell and littered the floor. The rap of a nightstick on the steel door made him jump.   
“Prepare for entry!”   
As the door swung open, and Shawn Mendes walked in, Cameron’s heart fluttered in fear, for the very first time. Anxious little Shawn was no more, and he looked at Cam in a contemptuous glare.   
“I’ll be outside. You have ten minutes.” Cavill said as the door slammed closed again. Shawn stood as Cameron quivered on the bed.   
“Are you here to take me back?” his voice quivered. Shawn smirked.   
“I might, if you don’t cooperate with me here.”   
Cameron sat up on the bed, his brown eyes wide.   
“Shawn please, you know that the Creeper’s will kill me.”   
“That’s not my problem, Cam. If you try to get out of this now, I’ll put you right back down there and tell Cavill to throw away the key.”   
Shawn sat next to the quaking Cameron, who was trying to hold back tears as his mind flashed back to the horrors of solitary confinement.   
“I know,” Shawn continued; “That your Dad is high up with the Creepers, and I know that that night was supposed to be my initiation. Why did you make up all that bullshit about “starting a new life, away from here”? Why didn’t you tell me the truth?”   
Cameron shook his head, tears in his eyes; “I wanted to protect you, Shawnie.”   
Shawn snorted, gesturing toward his surroundings; “Yeah, you did a really good job!”   
“You’re not in the gang, at least. If you become a Creeper, it’s not a Monday to Friday thing you can just leave whenever you like. It’s a life. The needs of the gang come before your own, you’re expected to die for them. Death before dishonor. I was told to do the job with you, and not let nothin’ get in the way. When your initiation failed, I was told to forget you. You’re not welcome to become a part of the Creepers now. That’s thanks to me.”   
Shawn stared disbelievingly; “What do you want Cameron? You want me to thank you? Not gonna happen, man. You got me into this, and you’re gonna get me outta this.”   
Cameron hung his head, teardrops lapping at the rims of his deep, dark eyes.   
“They’re gonna kill me if I do.”   
“I don’t feel sorry for you.” Shawn said coldly; “You lied on the stand, and got me 8 to 10 years, while taking a nice sweet deal for yourself. You’re a cunt, and a coward. You’ll tell the truth about what happened that night, come whatever may.”   
Cameron sobbed; “You deserve to be angry with me, Shawn. I’ve ruined your life. You deserve to hate me for the rest of your life.” Choking on his sobs, Cameron shrunk into the bed.   
“I’m gonna help you.” He said, his deep voice shaking; “I promised you, Shawnie. I’ll do it, but you have to h-help m-me. Y-you have to f-forgive me, Shawn. Because I d-don’t know if I can forgive myself. I’ve done awful things.”   
His head between his knees, Cameron sobbed as he clutched his rosaries.   
“To err is human.” Shawn said, staring at the floor, repeating a Catholic mantra he’d heard somewhere before; “And to forgive divine. I guess I’m just not quite divine enough yet, Cam.”

 

“So, you’re telling me that Mother Mary’s making him confess?”   
Stiles’ whiskey eyes were wide as the men devoured their evening meal. Shawn nodded;   
“Seems so. He says he wants forgiveness.”   
“And are you gonna forgive him?”   
“He can go to hell.” Shawn said coldly; “He doesn’t have any of my forgiveness. Not yet, anyway.”   
Stiles sniggered; “I like the new Canada!”   
Tom ate in silence, and Derek Hale eyed him suspiciously. There seemed to be something off about the young man, as he kept his head down and ate his curry in dead silence. Derek Hale was a man unused to change, and liked routine, and when something was off about someone, he was always determined to find out what.


	17. Have Yourself a Very Little Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas in Men's Central Jail

The smell of tinsel and sparkling, warm cinnamon filled the air with magic. Shoppers crowded the malls and streets of Los Angeles, dashing in and out of stores picking up last minute gifts and cards. The week before Christmas in L.A was always manic. Car horns droned, Christmas songs roared and trumpeted their way into the ears of every living soul in the city.   
Karen Mendes was known for her love of the festive season. She hand-made all her Christmas cards and would decorate the house months in advance.   
This year, Karen sat at her dining room table with her daughter Aaliyah, four days before Christmas, writing store-bought cards for family and friends, her home half-heartedly decorated by Aaliyah.   
“Will Shawn be home for Christmas?” Aaliyah asked excitedly. The question brought a prick of tears to Karen’s eyes. “No, baby. But next year I’m sure he will be.”   
Aaliyah’s face crumbled, and she went back to writing her classmates’ cards.   
After her young daughter went to bed, Karen sat awhile at the dining table, watching the flickering of the Christmas tree lights, and the twinkling flame of tealight candles. Pouring herself a large glass of white wine, she walked through the hall and opened her son’s bedroom door.   
For just under four months, the bedroom had lay empty. It still breathed him. His guitar sat un-strummed and collecting dust. His robe hung neatly on the end of his bed. He was always such a tidy boy.   
Karen picked up his bottle of cologne from his dresser and smelled him, the smell making her tears stream down her cheeks. She put on his robe and felt him hug her, felt her beautiful son all around her.   
Sitting on his bed, Karen turned on his turntable and picked up his Johnny Cash Live at Folsom LP, one of his favorites, and let the record play as she sipped wine, sobbed and resigned herself to her misery. 

“We’ll need to push scheduling back until January. We’re having a cold snap and I can’t risk papers accusing us of enforcing hard labor in this weather.”   
Fiona Goode was annoyed her rehabilitation program was being hindered and it wasn’t even off the ground yet. She lit a Marlboro and worked over the January plans with Deputy Cavill, who sighed and grunted his way through the meeting.   
“Who the hell are we putting on this program? People with the possibility of parole only, I guess?”   
Fiona shrugged; “Perhaps, but I want Derek Hale on it.”   
Cavill’s eyes widened; “Why?”   
“To show that no matter how bad they can be, we can pull them in line. I want that Canadian Mendes, too. I don’t know if he has the chops for hard work, though.”   
Henry grunted; “Oh, I wouldn’t underestimate that one.”   
Fiona eyed him warily; “What the hell’s the matter, Henry? You got a reindeer up your ass or something lately?”   
He laughed; “I’m just saying that Mendes is a little more clued on that you’d think.”   
Fiona smiled, taking a long drag of her cigarette; “He’s got some shit on you, doesn’t he? Don’t think I haven’t been made well aware of he and his little band of miscreants dining like princes and the fact that he makes frequent trips to the North Tower to visit a supposedly empty cell.”   
Cavill sighed with resignation; “He’s got me bad, Fiona. He caught me…you know…with Jonas. He said he’ll tell Cordelia.”   
Fiona’s brown eyes widened; “Well, well…” she reclined back in her chair; “This isn’t the first time, either. Delia would definitely leave you this time.”   
Henry nodded; “I know, so I’ve got to keep the little bastard quiet until I figure out my next move.”   
“Does Jonas know?”   
Henry nodded; “I had to move him to South Block for Mendes, and he’s mad as hell. He wants Mendes’ head for it, or he’s gonna tell Delia. I’m in an impossible situation.”   
“Well, you oughta be more careful where you put that yule log of yours, huh? Seems like there’s only one common enemy, then.”   
“Yeah.” Cavill said, rolling his eyes. Fiona pointed at him.   
“You see to it,” she said; “That you get this situation in hand immediately. I will not have my daughter’s life ruined on account of you thinking with your dick. Get it together, Henry.” 

“It really doesn’t feel like Christmas at all.”   
Stiles was contemplative as he looked at the gifts from his Dad in the corner of his cell. Derek nodded as he washed at the sink.   
“Well, Stiles, this is prison. What do you expect, the Macy’s Parade to visit?”   
“I’m the one with the sarcastic comebacks in this cell, thanks.”   
Derek smiled; “Go look under your bed.”   
“What for? Divine inspiration?”   
Derek glared at him in the mirror; “Just look for Christ’s sake.”   
Stiles huffed and lay on the floor. His brown eyes eyed an obscure object under the bed. He reached into the dusty depths and retrieved the crudely packaged object.   
Derek’s green eyes looked down on him; “Well, open it.”   
Stiles tore like an excited child at the brown paper and his jaw dropped. Inside was a long, flat piece of metal carved ornately in the prison workshop.   
Derek laughed as Stiles eyed the handmade car registration plate. “I figured,” Derek continued; “That it’ll come in handy when you get out of here.”   
The registration for the State of California read; 5T1L35.   
Stiles blushed; “My God, Derek. How did you do this?”   
“I went to a great deal of trouble to make and steal that. Don’t thank me or anything.”   
“Yes, of course! Thank you! But…I ah, kinda didn’t get you anything.”   
“You don’t need to. To give is better than receive and all that.”   
“Are you giving me this to sweeten the fact you’re gonna kill me with it?”   
Derek laughed a dirty chuckle; “Oh, I might still kill you yet, but not at the season of goodwill.” 

For Shawn Mendes, Christmas Eve had always been spent at the Golden mountain lodge. Golden was a small town in British Columbia, where Karen Mendes would always take her two kids to celebrate Christmas. A warm, family-oriented retreat in the Canadian mountains, the family would ski, dip in the hot tub, drink cocoa and sled for five days straight, all the while opening presents and singing together with their family friends.   
This year was quite different. As Shawn lay in his prison cell, staring through the barred windows, he remembered those days and how much he took them for granted. A lonely tear stabbed at his eyes as he looked out over the barren prison yard as darkness descended over California.   
“You know,” Tom interjected; “Christmas was always my favorite time of year. I always loved seeing my Mum and Dad relax and finally get along, and everything, even just for a day, was always great.”   
Shawn nodded; “Even though my folks divorced, Mum would always manage to make Christmas beautiful.”   
“Well,” Tom said contemplatively; “I’m not saying I can make it beautiful, but I did get half a bottle of gin off a prison contact, we could have a little something?”   
“Oh my God, are you serious?”   
“We might as well drink it quick, cos if we’re caught with it it’ll just get taken off us.”   
Shawn smiled a big grin.   
Neither of the men were quite strong enough to handle the gin straight, which burned and tasted like perfume. The only available mixer was Diet Coke from the prison store.   
“It’s not conventional,” Tom said, pouring them a cup each; “But I guess it’ll do.”   
Shawn chuckled; “Strangely, Tom, this year it fits.”   
The two young men sat in their cell, swathed in the pale moonlight entering the window enjoying an after-lights-out tipple. They clinked their tin mugs in a toast as the bells rang out for Christmas Day. 

A saving grace of Christmas Day at Men’s Central was that all work was cancelled, as they ran with skeleton staff as far as possible. Breakfast was delayed until 10am and visitors were permitted to stay an hour extra. As Shawn, Tom, Stiles and Derek ate their scrambled eggs on toast, they regaled one another with stories of Christmases past.   
“It must be Christmas,” Stiles said, eyeing Henry Cavill, who was sharing a joke with a fellow guard; “The colossal prick himself is even mustering a smile.” 

Stiles Stilinski’s eyes widened, and he leapt for joy as he was marched into the visitor’s room. At one table sat his father and a face he hadn’t seen in nearly two years.   
“Careful,” Noah said as he hugged his son; “We’ve had to tell them he’s your brother. I wasn’t sure they’d let him in if he wasn’t family.”   
Scott McCall grinned and hugged his best friend; “Hi, Stiles. Merry Christmas.”   
“Hey, Scotty.” He whispered, his voice choked.   
They sat down, and it were as if no time had passed at all.   
“Things are a mess in Beacon Hills, Stiles. We need you back there.” Scott said, his brown eyes melancholy; “I miss you, man.”   
“I’ve only got a year and a half to go, dude! I’ll be back in no time!” 

When Karen Mendes walked into the visiting room, she beamed at her son.   
“Hello, sweetheart!” she said, giving him a big, yet heavily supervised hug. “Merry Christmas!”   
“Merry Christmas, Mom.” He said quietly. They sat down.   
“I got you some gifts they said would be allowed, I gave them to the guards. I’m sorry it’s not much.”  
Shawn beamed; “Thanks, Mom. How are you and Aaliyah?”   
“She misses you, darling. I wish I could bring her.”   
“This is no place for her to be,” Shawn said, a melancholy look in his eyes. Karen smiled.   
“Cordelia says there’s a lot of hope, though.”   
Shawn gave his Mother a knowing smile; “There sure is.” 

“That was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.”   
Shawn’s big, brown eyes were full of tears as he sat on his bed, regaling Tom of his Mother’s visit as he eyed the small pile of presents in the corner of the room. To see her walk from the visitor’s room to go off and celebrate Christmas in the world without him had broken his young heart. He sat, in his pale concrete world, with a rusty steel door at one end and a shitter at the other, when the rest of the world sat eating and drinking with their family. Tom gave him a knowing smile and a nod.   
“This and birthdays are the worst.”   
“How can you always stay so upbeat, Tommy?”   
Tom laughed; “Work at it. I’ve told you before, remember life outside of this place. Know that one day you’ll be back with them and never let go of that. Now, let’s polish off the gin and get these presents open!”

Christmas Day was the only holiday where dinner was served to the cells. A hot plate of turkey with breadcrumb stuffing, honey-glazed parsnips, mashed potato, carrots and turnip, all blanketed with a thin, runny gravy.   
“Just like Ma used to make.” Tom said caustically. Shawn smiled. The food was tasteless and overcooked, like usual, but both were thankful for a small reminder of life outside the barbed wire fences of Men’s Central.   
As they lay on their beds after, heads slightly buzzing from the gin, Shawn began to hum a little tune.   
“You know,” Tom chimed; “I’ve never actually heard you sing. Why don’t you sing a little something? Since its Christmas and all.”   
Shawn laughed; “I haven’t sung in months, dude! I’d probably be terrible!”   
“Go on!” Tom pleaded; “Please?”   
“Ah, shit…” Shawn groaned as he cleared his throat. Lying on his bunk, slightly bloated from a burned and bland Christmas dinner, his song began as a low hum, before reaching out into his smoky, distinctive mid-tenor, carrying out into the labyrinthine hallways of the prison.   
“Have yourself a merry little Christmas,   
Let your heart be light,   
From now on your troubles will be out of sight,   
Here we are in olden days,   
Happy golden days,   
Faithful friends who are dear to us,   
To gather near us once more…” 

Noah Stilinski lay on his recliner armchair, drinking a can of beer. Night had descended on Beacon Hills, and the Sheriff sat alone, listening to the distant hum of families’ music, laughter and party games as they enjoyed their Christmas evening. The lack of decoration displayed his yuletide enthusiasm. He’d been invited to the McCall home to spend Christmas Day, but gracious though the offer was, Noah knew he wouldn’t go, and instead, after visiting Stiles, he’d worked the whole day overtime, until he fell into his deep armchair, racked with exhaustion.   
The brown paper parcel tied loosely with white string had been too intriguing. He’d almost peeked on the way home. He’d torn it open the minute he got home and gasped. The tin mug was slightly crude, formed in the prison workshop. Gun-metal grey, it was engraved “Dad”. Tears welled in Noah’s eyes as he looked over the handmade gift from his son. On the bottom were his crudely carved initials: “M.S”.


	18. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The knives are out in Men's Central Jail, as Shawn juggles his own fate against that of his friends, and Stiles makes a startling discovery.

Derek Hale stood at the sink in his cell, undressed to his tight black underwear. His rippling muscles and dark tribal tattoos were on full display as he tried to look sharp for his meeting with the Warden. His strong, powerful legs ascending to that round, perky buttocks, drawing into his broad, muscled back. His thick, masculine arms shaved his face as his green eyes glared into the mirror.   
The scrawny, pale little Stiles Stilinski tried to read his book, but found his round, whiskey-colored eyes wandering. When Derek Hale stood before him, his anxiety spiked. Here stood the man who’d beat him to a pulp, and almost split him in two as he raped him. The flashbacks still haunted Stiles, and he could still remember the blinding, searing pain, and his own torturous, futile pleas as he begged for mercy still rang in his own ears, and his face still burned fresh with his own humiliation.   
“What are you looking at?”   
Stiles had been unaware of his own staring, he cleared his throat; “I don’t know, but it’s looking back.” He said defensively.   
“Keep it up,” Derek grunted into the mirror; “See what it gets you.”   
“The staring or the sarcastic clap-backs?”   
Derek’s luminous eyes glared into the mirror and right back at Stiles. In the white light of morning pouring in through the windows, his eyes were the color of emerald, deep and swimming.   
“Depends on what you’re staring at.”   
Stiles shrugged; “I guess I just never realized how green and…big your eyes are. That’s all.”   
A small smile formed at the edges of Derek’s lips as he continued looking straight at Stiles. He grunted.   
“All the better to see you with.” 

“Promise me you’ll be careful.”   
There was a note of not only concern, but genuine fear in Tom’s trembling voice. Shawn turned, his brown eyes narrowed.   
“What do you mean, Tom?”   
Tom Holland cleared his throat, not meeting Shawn’s eyes. He stood by the door as Shawn washed at the sink, eyeing him suspiciously in the mirror.   
“That ex of yours…some…people wanna know where he is.”   
Shawn turned on his heel, his eyes wide.   
“What do you know, Tom?”   
The English boy skittered across the floor, his nerves on full display.   
“Not much, but please be careful. The Creepers are looking for him, and they’ve been…talking to me.”   
“Have they been threatening you?”   
Tom nodded, his big brown eyes wide with panic; “They’ve threatened my Mum, Shawn. His father was here yesterday looking for him, and he wants them to tear the place apart looking for him. So please tread carefully Shawn, I’m scared.”   
Shawn Mendes steeled himself, butterflies fluttering in his throat.   
“I’ll take care of it.” he said finally; “I won’t put other people in danger on account of me.” 

Cameron Dallas’ eyes rolled as he saw the door open and Shawn walk in. He folded his arms and turned away as he sat on his lonely bunk.   
“What do you want, now?” he asked childishly; “I’ve given you everything you’ve asked for!”   
“Not everything, Cam. I need you to talk to my lawyer, give a full statement, and then we’ll decide what to do with you next.”   
“You didn’t even let me spend Christmas with my Dad, Shawn.” Cam said, a tear in his eye. Shawn scoffed in disgust.   
“You whiny little bitch!” he hissed, “I spent Christmas rotting in here because of you! I should have been with my family, too!”   
Cameron turned, his eyes aflame with anger and self-pity, a startling combination.   
“After I talk to your lawyer, I’m gonna be killed by my own gang! You’re gonna walk away and live out your normal little life, I’m not!”   
Shawn pondered the thought, and after an eternity, shrugged his shoulders; “You should have thought of that, Cameron, before you lied on the stand. Truth is, I really don’t give a shit what happens to you after this, but first thing Friday morning, you’re gonna talk to my lawyer, give the truth about that night, and then I’ll tell the guards to release you back into general population. But, if I’m feeling generous and I think your statement is good enough, I can maybe ask them to leave you here for the rest of your sentence, to keep you away from them. You’ll have visits from your family, too. However, if you lie, or in any way deviate from the truth in your statement, or I catch you half-stepping me, I’ll put you right back down to solitary, where I’ll kill you with my bare hands. Understand?”   
Cameron nodded; “Yes, Shawn.”   
“Good boy, now let’s go over that statement, shall we?” 

“The Goode Plan will begin with a group of ten prisoners, selected by myself and Chief Cavill, and judging by the success of that, we will decide whether it’s plausible and efficient to continue it.”   
Derek Hale nodded as Fiona Goode glorified her new plan of penal reform.   
“Mr. Hale, I’d very much like you to be part of it.”   
Derek scoffed; “Rehabilitation? I’m up for five life sentences without parole, what good will this do me?”   
Fiona smiled, she’d readily prepared an answer to this question; “It will show you in some kind of positive light. It just might make those mean ole’ bunch of hens down at the Parole Board think again. Think of yourself as a…work in progress.”   
Hale smiled contemplatively; “Who else will be on this “Goode Plan”? Better not be some bunch of ass-licking freaks who just want their names in a paper?”   
Fiona laughed at Derek’s candor. “Not to worry, Derek.” She said; “We’ve hand selected them, it will be the best of a very wicked bunch.”   
“Alright,” Derek said; “Count me in.” 

“Jesus Christ! This is impossible!”   
Derek sighed with exasperation, rolling his eyes. Shawn lay on the prison gym’s bench after six sit-ups, panting and exhausted.   
“You asked me for help, Mendes!” he growled; “The first outing of Warden Goode’s plan is next week, do you wanna be a useless sack of shit, or pull your weight and get parole quicker?”   
They were alone in the tiny, hardly-used fitness suite at Men’s Central, presided over by a beefy older woman with a stone-cold expression.   
“Isn’t there something less painful and stupid we could be doing?”   
“Yes, there is,” Derek said flatly; “It’s where I put my hands around your little throat and see how long it takes for you to stop whining like a little bitch.”   
Shawn suddenly began another sit-up. 

“That’s three goddamn nights this week they’ve been at that gym together!” Stiles moaned in the exercise yard.   
“Maybe,” Tom said; “Shawn’s embracing the whole “new year, new me” craze. Or maybe he just wants to bulk for going on Warden Goode’s plan. Either way, it gets Derek away from you for a while, I thought you’d be happy about that?”   
Stiles shrugged as they wandered aimlessly around the yard; “I guess I should be, but he’s kinda been…sort-of okay lately.”   
“Okay?!” Tom said incredulously, his eyes wide; “Stiles, this is the man who raped you, beat you to fuck and has promised to kill you on multiple occasions. I’m surprised you say he’s human, much less “okay””.   
“Yeah, I guess.”   
Their discussion was cut brief when the boys realized they were being circled by Creepers, who, like a pack of hyenas in the African plains, had cornered their prey. The cold, espresso brown eyes of one leader preyed on Tom.   
“You betta’ give our homeboy up smooth, or your New Year’s kiss is gon’ be from one of our shivs, bitch.”   
Tom’s breath came short and sharp, and Stiles’ eyes widened in surprise.   
“I don’t know where he is!” Tom protested; “He won’t tell me, I swear! I don’t think he even knows!”   
The lead Creeper smiled a gold-toothed smile; “C’mon, you can do betta than ‘dat!”   
“Honestly!” Tom pleaded; “I don’t know!”   
The gang laughed, mocking the boy’s cut-glass English accent.   
“You got two days, bitch. ‘Fore we come lookin’ for you. All of you.”   
“Hey,” Stiles said, throwing his hands up; “I know nothing…about…nothing.”   
“Stilinski, we already got some unfinished business with you.” the lead Creeper winked; “See you soon, boys.”   
As they swaggered off, Tom and Stiles stood catching their breath. For a second, Tom was sure he was done for.   
“Ok, dude.” said Stiles; “Wanna tell me what the fuck that was about?” 

The bunk creaked and screamed with every move Stiles made as he tossed and turned against the starched, scratchy blankets. He exhaled loudly, his mind working overtime and heart racing as he stared into the inky blackness of his prison cell.   
“What the hell’s the matter with you?” Derek groaned from below, making Stiles almost leap from the bed.   
“Oh my God!” he hissed; “You scared me half to death! What makes you think something’s the matter?”   
Derek sighed, exasperated and exhausted with his younger cellmate; “Because, Stiles, when you get uptight about something you become even more unbearable than usual. Now, spill so I can get some rest.”   
Stiles sighed, knowing he was rumbled. “Tom’s in big trouble. I don’t know if I should be telling you, but it’s because of Canada.”   
“What kind of trouble?”   
“The kind that involves the Southside Creepers. They want that ex of his, Dallas. Only Shawn knows where he is. They’re threatening Tom and his family because of it, and I don’t know what to do.”   
Derek rolled his eyes; “Do nothing. Stay out of it.”   
“I can’t do that, Derek.”   
“Why not?”   
“Because he’s my friend!” Stiles hissed; “Those are hard to find in here, man! And protecting each other is what friends do! Just because you wouldn’t know a friend if it bit you on the nose!”   
“Fine, Stiles. Ignore my advice and see what happens. The Creepers would have already killed you if it weren’t for me, let’s not forget that.”   
Stiles gulped; “They still might.” 

Shawn felt the crushing blow to his throat come from nowhere, as the “Wolf of Beacon Hills” glared down on him, his eyes fixed with furious anger as he slammed the young Canadian into the shower-room wall.   
“Where the fuck is that ex of yours?”   
Shawn’s brown eyes pleaded for mercy, panic-stricken as he gasped for air and grabbed helplessly at Derek’s big, masculine hands, wrapped around his pale throat.   
“Listen to me,” Hale continued; “You’re putting everyone else in danger because of your little ego trip. Now, tell me where he is, or I’ll make you tell me.”   
He released his grip slightly, and Shawn gasped for air, his face burning red; “I just…just need…two more days!”   
“What the hell for?”   
“He needs to speak to my lawyer…I need his statement.”   
Derek grabbed young Shawn’s throat again, his lips pursed and eyes staring venomously; “Get the meeting fast-tracked to tomorrow, or it won’t be Creepers you’ll be worrying about. It’ll be me.”   
He released his grip and Shawn fell to the floor, spluttering and coughing at Derek’s feet.   
“Make it happen.” Derek said, turning away; “I’ll see you at dinner.” 

“Alright, I’ll do it.”   
Relief washed over Shawn as Cameron agreed to the meeting with Cordelia, scheduled for the next morning.   
“Perfect,” Shawn said; “I had to beg Cavill to get Cordelia to fast-track my meeting, so it better be worth my while.”   
Cameron’s eyes filled with dread and panic; “Are they really looking that hard for me? The Creepers?”   
Shawn nodded; “They’re threatening anybody in sight looking for you. Allegedly its because your Dad is telling them to.”   
Cameron nodded; “My Dad’s a pretty powerful guy, y’know?”   
“Then he won’t let them hurt you!”   
“You don’t understand, Shawnie! To Creepers, loyalty is everything. That’s what my own Dad lives by!”   
“So, you’re telling me that he’d put the gang before his own son?”   
Cameron nodded, not meeting Shawn’s eyes.   
“Well, I’m sorry Cam.” Shawn said; “I’ve gotta put you back in general population, otherwise they’re gonna start hurting people because of me.”   
“No more people can get hurt.” Cameron said, nodding his head, eyes still staring blankly ahead; “I’ll talk to them, and I’ll tell them everything. But you gotta try to forgive me, Shawn. I know it’s the last thing on your mind you probably wanna do right now, but I can’t go to heaven with a lie on my lips, and I can’t go knowing you hate me.”   
Shawn snorted derisively; “You can kiss my ass. I wanna bash your skull in, and I’ll think about heaven later.” 

Henry Cavill was in the middle of his mid-afternoon rounds when he felt his cell phone vibrate. Glancing at the pale screen before him, the text was an ominous, if not unexpected one.   
Tomorrow. Midnight.   
He sighed and put his phone away. 

The dining room was abuzz with idle chatter, including that of Shawn, Tom and Derek. However, Stiles remained distant and aloof, playing with his pasta more than eating it. The other three chatted excitedly about Shawn’s chances of a full re-trial.   
“I wouldn’t count your chickens before they hatch, though.” Derek said, keeping his eyes on his food. “You both have to survive the night first. And tonight, the knives will be out on all sides. Keep your wits about you.” 

Cordelia Foxx sat alone, knees drawn up on her oversized armchair. In the pale lamp-light of her living room, the radio played softly in the background as she pored over her small caseload. In her Shawn Mendes file, she had drafted the appeal, in which she asked that in the event the conviction was not immediately overturned, that it at least be remanded for a retrial, in which both Shawn and Cameron would be re-tried and re-sentenced.   
Karen Mendes sat opposite Cordelia, her eyes glued to the floor and a cup of coffee in hand. She had swung by almost unannounced, a look of distress on her face. She had demanded to know exactly where Shawn’s case sat, and how they were going to go about the appeal.  
“We run the risk,” Cordelia told Karen Mendes; “of him getting a worse sentence than before. If Cameron Dallas decides to lie again and gets a jury to believe him, we could wind up worse than we began. For the kind of charges that he’s up against Shawn is looking at a 15-year stretch. Marcia Clark is a good judge, but she might not be so lenient next time around.”   
“But my boy is telling the truth!” Karen protested; “Somebody’s got to listen to him! If they knew anything about this Dallas boy, or even Shawn’s own father, they’d think differently!”   
Cordelia’s eyes narrowed; “What do you mean about Shawn’s father?”   
Karen sighed, taking a sip of her coffee.   
“Let me tell you about Manuel Mendes…” 

Stiles Stilinski sat in his cell, eyeing the clear, frosty night sky. The stars glittered, burning bright so far away. These were the nights for star-crossed lovers to lie in a tight embrace, whispering sweet nothings and making oaths upon the moon and stars. For Stiles Stilinski, however, it was to be another sleepless, cold night in a prison bunk.   
He sat on his bed, his brown eyes downward in a face of melancholic depression. He had known, since a young age, that he found both sexes attractive, and through his teenage years, had always attempted to hide his bisexuality behind his veneer of humorous sarcasm, passing his true emotions off as jokes and petty humor.   
Beneath his comedic, hyperactive surface, Stiles was a young man whose emotions ran deep, whose thoughts were disorganized, and whose feelings were always overlapping and complex.   
“Penny for your thoughts, Stiles?”   
“You suck, and that comes free.”   
Derek grinned as he attempted to read a newspaper. “Stiles, try though you may, even you couldn’t bring my mood down today.”   
“Oh?” the young man asked from the top bunk; “And what do you have to be so damn cheerful about?”   
Derek’s green eyes flashed up from the paper; “My uncle Peter is coming to visit me.”   
Stiles screwed his face up; “Since when does sourwolf get visitors?”   
“He thought I wouldn’t want to see him.”   
Stilinski snorted in derision; “Personally, that’d be music to my ears, because I don’t know who’d wanna come visit you.”   
Derek stood to his full height and stared malevolently. Stiles shrunk into the bed.   
“You smarmy, hyperactive little spaz. You think you’re so clever, but you don’t know anything about me, or my life.”   
“I know you’re a monster. That’s all I need to know.”   
Derek threw down his paper, which slapped against the floor and he stepped toward the bunk bed.   
“What happens now?” Stiles asked; “You gonna tear my clothes off and rape me again?”   
“Why would I do that?”   
“It didn’t stop you before.”   
Derek snorted as he continued glaring at the squirming young man above. His poisonous stare belied a deeper meaning, one reflected in the slightly upturned corners of his mouth.   
“Stiles, you might think I’m some kind of monster, and I guess you’d be half-right. I’ve done awful things to you. But you see, I’m the kind of guy who does nothing that serves no purpose.”   
“What purpose did killing all those people serve? What purpose did raping and terrorizing me serve?”   
“Get down here.” Derek grunted. “Now.”   
“No, you’re gonna hit me!”   
Derek rolled his eyes; “No, I’m not. Get down here, or I’ll pull you down.”   
Slowly, cautiously, Stiles emerged from the bunk and, while keeping his eyes trained on the Wolf of Beacon Hills, stepped down to the floor and looked up into Derek’s spotlight stare.   
“What?” he asked, shrugging his shoulders. Derek smiled, leaning close to the young man.   
“I’m gonna tell you a secret.” He said, his voice low and gravelly. He leaned into Stiles’ ear, and muttered, his breath hot on the younger man’s skin; “I never killed anybody.”


	19. Who's Afraid of the Big, Bad Wolf?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shawn forces Cameron to meet with Cordelia and confess the real events of their crimes, with damning consequences. Derek and Stiles make stunning revelations to one another. Lydia Martin is given a mysterious offer.

“Tell me, you’re still sharing with the Stilinski boy? I’d imagined you killing him weeks ago.”   
Derek nodded; “Saving him for you. Just like we agreed.”   
Peter Hale raised his eyebrows; “Did you at least rape him? A little bit?”   
Derek smiled rancorously; “I may have had a little anger to take out.”   
Peter laughed across the table, smiling with a crooked malevolence; “A little? I surmised you’d have quite a bit? After all, he’s the reason you’re in here. I imagine it would be quite convenient for you to…what’s that expression? Shiv him? You’d probably get early release for it, the boy’s a royal pain in the sphincter.”   
Peter Hale had always used extensive, flowing vocabulary, unlike his frighteningly silent nephew, who would grunt a response rather than form a sentence. He sat opposite his chained nephew in a private room, which was necessary due to the security clearances needed to visit Hale. The air was charged between them, and yet the guard stood oblivious, staring into space, dreaming of lunchtime.   
“Pain in the ass though Stilinski may be, if I kill him, it gives them good reason to keep calling me by your nickname.” Derek’s eyes glinted in the half-light of the filthy concrete box. Peter smiled.   
“Ah, The Wolf of Beacon Hills.” He said contentedly; “It’s got a ring to it, and suits me better than you, too.” He kept his voice a low, tiny whisper; “I imagine the moniker will soon be mine, though.”   
“Talk so I can hear you!” the guard bellowed, coming out of his daze for a moment. Peter nodded.   
“Sorry, sarge.” He mocked. Derek smiled.   
“How’s Mr. Whittemore?”   
Peter Hale’s eyes glinted with a maleficent glow, his thin lips curling into a wicked grin;   
“Just fine, I’m sure he’ll appreciate you asking. I’ll be paying him a visit very, very soon.” 

“I know this is gonna be hard, but you cannot talk until I ask you to.”   
Cordelia’s words were hushed as they waited in one of the visiting rooms. The damp room was lit only by a grungy looking barred window, which filtered in a sickly, yellowish light on the pale green room. Shawn’s cuffs had been undone and he sat to Cordelia’s right. When the scent of her floral, powdery perfume hit his nostrils, it reminded Shawn of life before it stank of mildew, cheap disinfectant and the constant stench of sweat.   
The door screeched open and Cameron Dallas was led in, hands cuffed in front of him and his honey-colored skin was ashen, his chocolate eyes glazed as a young female guard sat him down and uncuffed him.   
A few moments later, the click of stiletto heels across the floor signaled a new appearance. An attractive older woman poked her head around the door. Led in by Henry Cavill, she smiled broadly.  
“Good morning,” she said; “I’m Deputy District Attorney Natalie Martin, and I’m going to be sitting in on today’s meeting and recording a copy for the DA’s office, if that’s ok?”   
After formalities were done, Natalie Martin sat down at the head of the table. Shawn was overjoyed to see it was a different prosecutor. ADA Victoria Argent, who had been lead prosecutor on Shawn’s trial was a malevolent, vindictive woman with a keen aptitude for convincing the jury to hate Shawn, dismissing him as “a devious and deceitful little criminal, hiding his cunning criminality behind his thousand-watt smile.”   
Natalie Martin seemed softer, with costume jewelry and light makeup, as opposed to Victoria Argent’s severe and domineering appearance, bright orange cropped hair and strictly dark colors.   
The tape recorder clicked, and the meeting began.   
“Cameron Alexander Dallas,” Cordelia began; “You have waived your constitutional right to be represented by counsel, is that correct?”   
“Yes.” Cameron said flatly.   
“You are aware,” Natalie Martin interjected; “That this means depending on what you say in this room, you can be charged with perjury and obstruction of justice?”   
Cameron shrugged his shoulders defiantly; “I’m already in jail, what else can they do to me?”   
“Mr. Dallas,” Cordelia began; “Tell me about April 21st.”   
Cameron’s eyes scanned the room, wide and panicked, he lowered them to his feet as a solitary tear fell from his eye.   
“It was me.” He whispered; “It was only me.” 

“Yeah, I’m sure he’s the real Andy Dufresne of Men’s Central Jail!”   
Stiles scoffed at Tom’s sarcasm; “I’m telling you, Tommy, it all makes sense!”   
“He’s messing with your head, Stiles! It’s what sick whack-jobs like Derek do to get off.”   
Stiles sighed dramatically, exasperated; “If you could only hear him tell it, Tommy, you’d think differently!”   
“So, let’s do a recap, make sure I have all this straight. Derek’s innocent, other than aiding and abetting murder. His uncle Peter committed said murders as retaliation for the arson which killed the rest of the Hale family, and Derek took the fall for it because…”   
“Because,” Stiles continued; “He was arrested before the job was finished, there’s one more person still to go. Jackson Whittemore, I know him. Went to school with him, and trust me, Peter will be doing the whole world a favor. He was one of the people who burned Derek’s house down. So, Derek is in here, charged as the “Wolf of Beacon Hills”, and Peter will commit the last murder in the same style so that it looks like “Oh, shit, we nailed the wrong guy!”, suddenly, Derek is released, not to mention paid a shitload of compensation, and both of them make their escape to Mexico, and they’re sitting pretty for the rest of their lives. It makes a lot of sense, Tommy!”   
Tom shook his head; “I just don’t see the sense in it! Seems a long ass way to go about revenge.”   
“Where’s Canada? He’d believe me!”   
Tom rolled his eyes as he tucked into his breakfast; “That’s Shawn’s problem.” He said, mouth half-full; “the boy is too gullible for his own good…I mean, have you seen that sleazy ex of his? I could tell that guy was trouble from a hundred paces!”   
“Well,” came the syrupy sweet voice of Shawn from behind them; “My sleazy ex just won me my ticket outta here!”   
He sat down next to Tom, who was attempting to reconcile his folly; “Oh, Shawn I’m sorry I didn’t mean…”   
Shawn silenced him with a wave of his hand; “It’s cool, man. He is a total sleazeball. But, a total sleazeball who’s gonna get me outta here! Cordelia’s on her way to the judge right now to ask that my sentence be overturned.” 

“Your Honor, I think it is only right that my client’s case be reviewed, and his sentence overturned, as this tape proves, it was a clear set-up all along, and that my client had no prior knowledge of the drug trafficking, nor of the unlawful firearm possession.”   
Marcia Clark listened intently, her eyes thoughtful.   
“Your Honor,” Natalie Martin interjected; “While this tape exonerates Mendes from the drug trafficking, it does not negate the fact that he held a loaded gun to the head of his lover and would have likely blown his head off had police not intervened, and furthermore, Ms. Foxx’s client then held a standoff with the San Francisco Police Department! It was attempted murder and resisting arrest, cut and dried.”   
“Alright,” the judge said, flicking a dark lock of hair from her eyes as she presided over the empty courtroom; “I’ve heard enough to know that this warrants re-trial. Ms. Martin, your office needs to re-examine evidence and decide what you’ll charge both men with or make any deals the District Attorney so pleases. Ms. Foxx, you and your client will have a chance to respond. I will schedule the hearing for one month from today to discuss this further. Alright, we stand in recess.” 

Cordelia walked down the steps of the Criminal Courts Building and into the grungy parking lot, which was lit by the dingy strips of fluorescent light, which buzzed constantly. Darkness had already fallen over the city of angels. The smell of exhaust fumes and urine stung at her nostrils as she walked briskly toward her little white Prius, her kitten heels striking off the cold stone lot. Swinging her briefcase, a small smile slowly began creeping across her face. Cordelia Foxx was pleased with herself. This had been a very productive day.   
That was her last thought before the darkness came, a blinding flash of light followed by red stars bursting in her eyes, shooting through the blackness of her own unconsciousness as she collapsed to the floor. 

The Beacon Hills Gazette had begun as little more than a school newspaper, but by the time Lydia Martin was a tender 20 years old, it had grown to be the newspaper of choice of some 30,000 Beacon Hills inhabitants. Her inquiring nature, her persistence, dedication and willingness to face danger had earned her a reputation as a fierce reporter, and caught the eye of Chris Argent, the Editor in Chief of the L.A Times, who’d offered her the job of Lead Crime Writer.   
She sat at her desk, papers neatly arranged and pink pen poised as the phone began to ring.   
“Lydia here.” She chirped. The line clicked and crackled.   
“Scoop of your life.” Said a deep, masculine voice; “Men’s Central Jail. Tonight. Midnight.”   
Lydia’s eyes widened; “Who is this?”   
“You’ll never know” the voice replied flatly. Lydia scoffed;   
“Then just how am I meant to gain access?”   
There was almost a laugh; “You’re Lydia Martin. You’ll find a way.”   
The line crackled and went dead.   
She replaced the receiver on the phone and sat startled and breathless as she pondered what had just happened. Could it be a prank? A set-up?   
There would be only one way to find out. 

Henry Cavill sat with his boots up on his desk, hand under his chin as he stroked his 5 o’clock shadow. He usually always shaved twice a day to keep the wretched stubble at bay, but working double shift didn’t always allow it.   
Fiona Goode strutted elegantly around the tiny security office, checking the camera screens, which were grainy and out-of-date.   
“Henry, feet.” She warned; “You know I hate it when you do that.”   
He promptly removed his feet from the desk; “Sorry.”   
“Have you considered what to do tonight?”   
He sighed; “I’m trying to think of something.”   
Fiona shook her head, lighting a cigarette; “You’re a stupid son of a bitch, Henry.” She gave a small laugh; “Things could have been far easier for you if you’d told Delia yourself, or if you’d just kept your dick in your pants like a normal husband.”   
He shook his head; “I know, Fiona. But what’s done is done.”   
Fiona turned, her brown eyes narrow; “For you, maybe. But now, you’re on the home strait, and you’re bringing that poor boy like a lamb to the slaughter. What do you think will become of him?”   
Henry’s steel blue eyes met his Mother-in-Law’s; “I think we both know.” 

Cordelia Foxx awoke, her heart pounding in her chest as the memory of a crushing blow came back to her. She felt the warm trickle of her own blood run down the back of her neck. She whimpered into the darkness of her blindfold as the car she was in trundled along. Her hands bound painfully behind her back, a gag kept her from calling out, also aided when she felt cold steel press against her forehead.   
“Start screaming, bitch, and it’s lights-out for you.”   
Tears streamed from her eyes underneath her blindfold as she lay on the floor of the car, a gun trained on her.   
Her muscles screaming in agony from the cramped conditions, her heart raced even faster as the car ground to a halt. In the blinding darkness, she whimpered as she was led to her sure demise. Dragged from the car and into the cold winter’s night, her bare feet scraped across a dirt road.   
In her dizzy, faint state, she could hear another car door open and the sound of three men walking toward her.   
“Here you go, boss.”   
The blindfold was removed, and her eyes burned with the bright headlights shining upon her. Through tear-soaked vision, she could see the suited, coiffed Kingpin approach.   
“Good evening, Miss Foxx.” He said, his Latin accent thick; “I’ve been expecting you. I must warn you, if you scream, a bullet will be put in your head with no notice. Do you understand?”   
Cordelia nodded frantically, sobbing in terror. The gag was removed, and she stood, aided by two Southside Creepers as Mateo Dallas stared her down, his deep chocolate eyes boring into hers.   
“Firstly,” he said; “I must apologize for the manner of our meeting, but I’m sure you’ll be aware of the reasons, my need for privacy, and why discretion is key. Secondly, I understand that you met with my son this morning.”   
She nodded in the affirmative. The Creeper Kingpin smiled wryly.   
“And I also understand that there is some intel to which you and the District Attorney’s office are now privy to that could be…compromising.”   
Cordelia nodded, her body shaking and shivering.   
“Y-yes…” she croaked, her voice shaky and mouth dry; “I have information about a drug deal that w-went wrong.”   
Mateo Dallas smiled; “Yes, and we all know whose fault that was. A person I believe who is now in prison with my son.”   
Cordelia hung her head; “Shawn Mendes is an innocent boy, he never meant for any of this.”   
Dallas laughed, and Cordelia could see the family resemblance in the smug look on the older man’s face, particularly the darkly handsome features and brilliant white smile.   
“Ah, yes, Miss Foxx, but I am not talking about Shawn Mendes.”   
Her eyes widened; “I d-don’t follow you…”   
The Creeper grinned; “Aha, I fear I must refresh your memory then, Miss Foxx.” 

With every grunt, Derek would push himself from the ground, longer and longer each time. Beads of sweat ran down his rippling back muscles as they contracted and released. His grunts became louder as he punished himself, at least 100 push-ups in. Stiles lay bored. His book had become a bore, he’d already realized who the whiny protagonist’s secret lover was, and his overactive mind was racing, his thoughts jumbled.   
“Must you make that hideous noise every time you do a push-up?” he called over from the bottom bunk. He could hear Derek sigh dramatically.   
“What would you like me to do, Stiles? Sit around and beat my meat?”   
“Thought you’d prefer to work out with Shawnie? Since he’s obviously your little prison wife.”   
Stiles’ derisive, snotty tone annoyed Derek. He stood up, sweat dripping from his body, making his muscles gleam in the harsh light.   
“Stop it, Stiles.” He said as he towel-dried himself, his green eyes scowling.   
“Dude, he clearly is. Maybe he should be your cell-mate, maybe he’d enjoy your grunting like a Neanderthal.”   
Derek sighed again, exasperated with his hyperactive cellmate.   
“Stiles.” He said, his voice low and measured; “I’m warning you.”   
“You know what?” Stiles said, flinging his book across the bed, his eyes furious and teeth clenched; “I’m sick of your goddamn threats, okay asshole?!” He leapt up from the bed and stood face-to-face with the “Wolfman”.   
“If you’re gonna kill me,” he said, his voice quivering; “I wish to God you’d hurry the fuck up!”   
Derek was taken slightly aback at his cellmate’s outburst, for the boy rarely cussed. He stood, arms folded, as Stiles lambasted him with a ferocity unseen from the younger inmate.   
“Because I’ll tell you something,” he continued; “I’d rather die than be condemned to living here with you! You beat me to fuck, raped me, then dropped me like I meant absolutely nothing! And you wanna know the worst thing?” His big, brown eyes clouded with tears, and his lip began to tremble; “You made it look so damn easy.”   
Derek’s eyes widened, his mouth agape as the smaller Stiles stood quivering before him, his face a twisted, tearful mask of contorted emotion.   
“Stiles, where the hell is this coming from?” he reached out to console the boy, who retreated from his touch.   
“Don’t touch me!” he yelled; “Don’t touch me…because I hate you.”   
The words were not shouted as an adolescent will scream at their parents, instead they were cold, off-the-cuff and wounding.  
Derek’s luminous green eyes fell to the floor. He looked genuinely hurt. Stiles turned away toward the sink. Derek raised his head, his face melancholy. His voice was a raspy whisper.   
“No, you don’t.”   
“What do you mean?” Stiles asked, talking through a lump in his throat. The forlorn Derek shook his head, approaching Stiles cautiously with trepidation, his voice low, a slow, careful whisper.   
“I know you don’t, Stiles. I’ve seen you…the way you…look at me. How your eyes wander, and you’ve told me in your sleep. I’ve heard you whispering my name in the night. I know you don’t hate me.”   
Stiles released an ugly sob as his tears began to flow freely; “I should.” he whispered through tears.  
“Turn around, Stiles.”   
He shook his head fiercely; “Leave me alone.”   
“Turn around.” He demanded again. The boy turned around, his whiskey eyes full of tears and he hiccupped as he tried to hold in his sobs. He shrugged his shoulders, a sulky, adolescent attitude. A mask to hide his true emotions.   
“What, Derek?”   
Derek Hale’s eyes remained fixed on the young Stilinski, their icy emerald color shining with a melancholy all their own.   
“You are not nothing.” he said finally, his words slow and thoughtful, delicately rolling from his usually all-too-sharp tongue; “These last four months with you, Stiles, for everything they’ve been, for every knife we’ve put in each other, they’ve taught me more about myself, and more about the person I want to become. You’ve taught me that I’m not the beast people have portrayed me to be. I’m not even the beast I painted myself to be. You’ve taught me that. I know I’m not perfect, and there’s a lot of things I’m never gonna be. But I never wanted you to feel like you were nothing. I wanted to hate you so badly, Stilinski. To detest you with every fiber of my being, and God knows there will always be a big part of me that wants to hurt you for what you did…but the truth is…I just can’t…from the minute I laid eyes on you in this cell, you triggered something in me, and I can’t forgive myself for the things I’ve done to you. But…I can start by telling you…that you are not nothing to me. You never were.”   
Stiles’ eyes were wide, his face stained with the tracks of his salty tears. His eyes darted around the room, desperately trying to avoid eye contact. He snorted, his voice thick with emotion, his gestures small and fragile;   
“You knew,” he said timidly; “You knew even before I did, and yet you didn’t say anything?”   
“The emotional realms…are not exactly my forte Stiles.”   
Stiles released a small laugh, a nervous chuckle. He shrugged again as his eyes scanned the room for some escape route, or some desperate distraction. He sighed: “I guess it’s amusing. Some big cosmic joke. Stockholm Syndrome, maybe. Screwed up, definitely. And…you suck sometimes…actually, I guess in the grand scheme of things you suck a lot…but there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. Jesus, how pathetic am I?”   
Derek nodded somberly; “I knew. I knew months ago. You’re a wonderful actor, Stiles Stilinski, but your eyes betrayed you. You really do look at me like I’m some kind of sex god, don’t you? Why is that?”   
Stiles’ eyes filled with tears once more, and his jaw began to quiver. Setting it firmly by gritting his teeth, he held his eyes in a Caligula-like stare, with just a hint of vulnerability behind their dark hazel color. He spoke in a raspy mutter, only just audible;   
“Because for all its heinousness, for however much it hurt, and for everything that it wasn’t…you were my first.”


	20. "Live...Live...Live..."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A turning point comes as the lives of all involved with Men's Central Jail become violently intertwined, whether they want to or not.

Shawn Mendes died at 3:16am. 

At 11:12pm Cordelia Foxx’s car sped through the gates, tires screeching and tears blinding her. Pulling up to the back door, she fiddled with her keys, her hands trembling and sobs racking her thin body. Cordelia Foxx was shaking as she opened the car door and fell into the arms of her husband.   
“Jesus Christ, come inside.” Henry puffed, cradling his hysterical wife.   
They approached the open fire exit door, and Henry led his trembling wife inside, his arm over her shoulder protectively, her blond hair wild and untamed.   
At 11:15pm Lydia Martin saw her window of opportunity. Ducked behind her car, she signaled to Isaac Lahey, her photographer whom she’d enlisted to accompany her on her mysterious mission.   
As the fire exit door crept to a close, Isaac’s long, pale fingers held it open. He beamed with self-confidence, and Lydia rolled her eyes. Tip-toeing inside, the familiar stench of urine, sweat and cheap disinfectant stung their nostrils as they crept through the pale, winding corridors and ever further into the belly of the beast. 

By midnight, Cordelia’s hands trembled uncontrollably as Henry handed her a cup of pale brown coffee, which smelled burnt and metallic.   
“A shot of whiskey would be better.” She sobbed, attempting to smile. Henry’s electric blue eyes gleamed. He reached into the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled a bottle of 12-year old Glenlivet. Cordelia gasped;   
“Where the hell did you get that?”   
“A Christmas gift from your Mother.”   
Cordelia smiled half-heartedly; “I suppose there’s a reason she’s the boss.”   
Henry sat on his desk and poured his wife a big shot of Glenlivet into a disposable cup.   
“Now,” he said as she swallowed it in one gulp; “Careful, love. You’ll make yourself tipsy. I’ve got some business to attend to, I should be half an hour at most, and I’ll be right back. I have to lock you in for your own safety, okay?”   
Cordelia nodded somberly. Henry smiled and kissed his wife’s tear-streaked cheek.   
“I’ll be back soon. I promise.”   
When the steel door slammed, Cordelia sighed, her hands still trembling. She helped herself to another nip of whiskey and grimaced as the vintage scotch burned her throat. She was distracted by a flicker on the CCTV unit, and strained her bleary eyes to see the small, grainy cell of video, and cocked her head as she comprehended what she saw. 

“It’s locked!” Isaac whispered frantically; “We came all this way for nothing!”   
He’d tried the steel door several times, and there was no other way into the prison than through this dim corridor. Lydia rolled her eyes.   
“Move, amateur!” she huffed as she pulled the bobby pin from her flame-red hair.   
“This prison was built in ’63.” She said; “Still a time of manual door-locks. Only the new blocks have automatic time-lock systems, so therefore…”   
She bit the pin and bent it, before poking it into the rusting lock, maneuvering it with flourish and sighing with exaltation as the door clicked open.   
“It should open.” She chirped contentedly. Isaac stood in astonishment.   
“You’ve done that before.” He said, visibly impressed.   
There’s a breach!!!   
The text message didn’t go through, and Cordelia panicked as she saw she had no signal bars on her phone. She knew she had to warn Henry. The red-haired girl and her accomplice were clearly breaking into the prison. Standing up, she was a little unsteady on her feet, a result of her shock and perhaps of the Glenlivet.   
The steel barred door wouldn’t move. Cordelia sat back down, and eyed the huge, grainy wall of CCTV. 

When the cell door screamed open at 00:31am, Shawn and Tom jumped to attention. They had been awake chatting in the darkness. Henry Cavill’s colossal frame filled the doorway and Shawn’s eyes widened.   
“Mendes, I need you with me.” He said in his deep, throaty English accent.   
“W-what for?” Shawn replied nervously, having been burned like this before.   
“I need to take you away from here, for your own protection.”   
Shawn and Tom gasped as Shawn slipped into his jumpsuit and sneakers, before being cuffed and led away by the Deputy Chief. 

It had all happened so fast. By 1am, Shawn had been led into the derelict, filthy cell in a disused basement corridor, he’d had no time to think before Cavill cuffed him to the steel barred door. His brown eyes widened in panic, as he rattled the cuffs, pleading with the Deputy Chief;   
“What have I done?” he begged; “Let me go, dude! Please?!”   
“I’m sorry, Mendes.” He said, with a shrug; “It’s just the way it has to be.”   
The cackle could be heard from down the dimly lit hallway; “Oh, Henry, you are a soft touch to a pair of pleading eyes!”   
Nick Jonas appeared into Shawn’s line of vision, swinging his baton, a vicious grin plastered on his face.   
“Off you go, Henry.” He said smugly, pointing the baton at the young Canadian in the cell; “Mendes and I are gonna have a little fun.” 

“Miss Martin, I presume?”   
Even when facing a security crisis, Henry Cavill’s manners never faltered. His smile was broad and handsome as Lydia Martin and Isaac Lahey wriggled in the grasp of two guards, their hands cuffed painfully behind their backs.   
“Let us out of these damn things!” Lydia hissed; “We’re here on official business!”   
Cavill’s eyes narrowed; “I don’t remember you signing the visitor’s log, Miss Martin? However, it just so happens that there may very well be a way you can be of use this evening.” 

“Please, please, you don’t have to do this…”   
Shawn’s begging fell on deaf ears as the cocky screw strode into the cell, and began circling like a shark, just waiting for the opportunity to strike.   
“What have I done?” Shawn asked, quaking.   
“I’m sure you think you’re very clever.” Jonas finally said, his voice a low, hoarse grumble; “But did you really think this was going to end any other way?”   
Shawn locked his jaw in a tight grimace as he felt the guard approach. He was determined he wouldn’t cry. He wouldn’t give this asshole the satisfaction of him begging any more.   
“It was only ever gonna go my way.” Jonas whispered, his chocolate eyes narrow and dark with malice. He approached the cuffed Shawn, who looked him dead in the eye.   
“You scared, bitch?”   
Shawn shook his head defiantly. Nick grinned.   
“Oh, that’s a rookie mistake, man. You should be.”   
Before he could help himself, and in an almost knee-jerk reaction, Shawn had mustered up his courage and spat in Jonas’ face. The cruel guard looked genuinely shocked as he wiped the spittle from his eye. Shawn smiled smugly to himself in a final act of defiance.   
“Oh, you little bastard.” Nick whispered, pointing his shining black nightstick in Shawn’s face; “You’re going to wish you hadn’t done that.” 

The deal had been forged in secrecy and deceit. Lydia Martin smiled proudly as she and Isaac Lahey sat in the Warden’s plush office, nursing coffee which had been brought up to them. When Cavill returned at 2:32am, Lydia had drifted into an uncomfortable sleep, a painful crick in her neck. She awoke, bleary-eyed as Cavill smiled broadly. He held a disc in his hand, which Lydia’s wide, inquisitive eyes were immediately drawn to.   
“I’ve lived up to my end of the bargain,” he said, extending the disc to her; “Now, its time for you to live up to yours. Remember our agreement.”   
Lydia smiled smugly; “A deal is a deal.”   
It was 2:50am before Henry Cavill returned to the basement, and Shawn Mendes lay in a crumpled heap. The attack had gone on for over an hour. One of the young prisoner’s arms was still cuffed to the steel door, and he lay in a crumpled, almost fetal position, his face swollen and bloody. It was only while undoing the cuffs that Henry realized Shawn wasn’t breathing.   
“Shittttttt…” he hissed as he grabbed the young Canadian, pulling him down from his crucifixion on a steel prison door. He lay him prostrate on the grungy cell floor and began pounding at his chest.   
“Mendes?!” he called as he began CPR. Thumping out a rhythm of chest compressions, he breathed into the bloody mouth of Shawn Mendes, but could feel no air.   
“Come on…” he whispered as he continued chest compressions, willing the boy to choke up some form of life. Clutching his radio, he spoke hurriedly.   
“This is Unit 12, I need medical personnel to Zone 2, Cell 0019, immediately. That’s medical personnel to Zone 2, Cell 0019 immediately.” 

Dr. Alan Deaton had worked in the prison service for 15 years, and in that time, he’d always loved working the nightshift. There was an air of peace in the prison infirmary, when the lights were dim and he could catch up on the paperwork the other lackadaisical prison doctors missed.   
When Deputy Chief Cavill’s call came in, he sent two junior doctors to the cell. They returned, their faces ashen, as Henry Cavill carried Shawn Mendes in his arms through the infirmary doors.   
Alan Deaton leapt up from his chair; “He should be on a stretcher!”   
“There’s no time!” Cavill barked; “He needs treatment immediately.” 

As Tom Holland paced his cell, his heart thumping in his chest and hands wringing, Shawn Mendes was lain on a hospital bed as the medical team worked desperately to revive the unconscious Canadian. Henry Cavill sat in a nearby chair, his heart pounding in his ears and his hands restless.   
The swelling of Shawn’s lips made it hard for Deaton to administer oxygen to him, so he had to do manual CPR.   
“This infirmary isn’t fit for this kind of treatment, he needs a hospital!” muttered one of the medical team. Deaton continued compressions impatiently, his dark eyes focused and hard.   
“There’s no time!” he said urgently; “We’re gonna lose him!”   
Henry’s hands shook as he sat in the dim light, as Alan Deaton and his team fought to save the life of a 20-year old boy.   
“Come on…” he whispered as he stood up and watched the boy be stripped, his body a mass of bruises and coagulated blood, as Dr. Deaton breathed into his mouth and thundered out chest compressions. “Live…” Cavill pleaded, his blue eyes wide. “Live…live…live.” 

Shawn Mendes died at 3:16am.   
At 3:17am, one small gurgle in the bottom of his chest began. Deaton’s brown eyes widened as Shawn Mendes began to cough, and blood began to run from his mouth. Turning him into the recovery position, Henry Cavill sighed in exhaustion, relief and joy all at once as the low, bloody gurgle of Shawn Mendes’ breathing began.   
He’d died at 3:16. By 3:17, he’d began to live again.  
“We’re gonna need to transfer him to an ICU right away.” Deaton said; “He’s breathing, but completely unresponsive.”   
Henry nodded; “Get him ready to go, I’ll assemble a security team to go with him.” 

As the unresponsive Shawn Mendes was stretchered into an ambulance, Henry Cavill lumbered back to his office, where his wife still sat, her legs crossed, desperate for the toilet. He opened the door with a bang, and she stood before him, her brown eyes wide and furious. Her hand launched toward his cheekbone at astonishing speed and made his teeth rattle as it connected in an open-handed slap. His face stinging, he turned to look at her. Her teeth bared, Cordelia fumed.   
“What have you done?!” 

Fiona Goode sped through the affluent suburbs of Los Angeles at 4:30am, a Marlboro hanging on her lip and her eyes wild with fury. She hated being woken early, but not more so than being awoken early with very bad news.   
“Move it, fuckhead!” she barked at a nearby car, as her panther-black Mercedes sped into the darkened city.   
Arriving at Men’s Central, she stormed through the labyrinthine halls, her Manolo Blahniks resounding off the concrete corridor walls. Slamming open the door of the security office, her eyes latched onto Nick Jonas.   
“You stupid son of a bitch!” she hissed venomously, as she strode across the floor, her arm swinging in a backhanded slap, which landed with a deafening smack against his face.   
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?! I have stood by and forgave your multitude of sins, your ham-handed battery and rape business, but this?! You’ve really done it now! Cops are gonna be swarming us everywhere.”   
“I’m sorry, Fiona.” He said, rubbing his face, a huge red welt appearing already. His brown eyes looked forlorn, like a deer caught in headlights.   
“My days of protecting you are over. All of you.” She hissed. Turning to Cavill, seated at his desk, his eyes somber, she gave him a look of disgust; “Get him out of my sight. Where is my daughter?”   
“I sent her home.” He said, rubbing his exhausted eyes; “She knows a lot, Fiona.”   
“But not about your little dalliances, I’m sure.” She said venomously.   
“What’s gonna happen to me?” Jonas asked, a quiver in his voice. Henry’s face remained stony.   
“The cops are on their way, Nicky.” He said with a shrug; “You better get that high-priced lawyer of yours. Unless you fancy making a break from a maximum-security prison?”   
His icy smile incensed Nick.   
“You motherfucker!” he snapped; “This is all your fault! You set me up for this!”   
Cavill laughed; “Try proving it.” 

The tape was released at 5:00am. It amassed 20,000 views in its first twenty minutes and was front-page headlines.   
“Brutality at Men’s Central Finally Confirmed”.   
The video, ten minutes in length, showed the inmate, his face blurred, handcuffed to a cell door while a prison guard launched into a vicious attack, punching, kicking and beating the young inmate with a nightstick, and finally pepper-spraying him as he begged for mercy. The comments were pure vitriol. 

Never trust the pigs. 

Motherfucker should be put down. ANIMAL. 

Because the inmate is white, suddenly everybody cares. SMH. 

This is a disgusting abuse of power. 

Do the crime, do the time. More officers need to be like this. 

OMG that’s horrible! Poor guy, hope he’s ok! 

Lydia Martin sat at her desk, pleased with her day’s work. Isaac Lahey sat by her side.   
“Sure looks pretty,” he said, his blue eyes dogged by dark circles. She nodded.   
“Not bad for a day’s work.” 

Stiles Stilinski awoke to the sound of sirens. Naturally curious, he wanted to stand on the sink and peer through his barred window. However, he didn’t dare move. Not when Derek looked so peaceful, his arm draped over the young Stiles’ body, his breathing heavy and eyes twitching in the land of deep dreams. Stiles smiled a little as he closed his eyes and listened to the sound of Derek’s breath, his familiar musky scent and felt the warmth of his body. They slept deeply, sweetly as Nick Jonas was read his Miranda rights and led out of Men’s Central Jail in handcuffs and day began to break over the City of Angels.


	21. Crimson & Clover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shawn's recovery takes a turn, as does Stiles & Derek's relationship.

The monitor bleeped consistently, his heartbeat regular. Shawn Mendes lay in the Intensive Care Unit of Los Angeles Community Hospital. His swelling was down considerably, and after two long weeks, Shawn had begun to look like himself again. Karen Mendes sat by his side, her blond hair tousled and unwashed, as she read to her son from a magazine. Reading him protein tips from Men’s Health, her tired brain stumbled over the words and she slurred.   
Deputy Jordan Parrish, who stood watch on the door of Shawn’s private room, had watched Karen Mendes for the last two weeks exhaust herself into a stupor as she sat by her son’s side, reading to him, holding his hand, caressing his dark mahogany curls, doing frequent leg and arm exercises with him, all the while pleading with him to open his eyes and look at her. She didn’t leave for even a minute.   
She’d eat from the vending machines in the hallway, and friends would bring fresh clothes.   
“Maybe it’d be good for you to take a break?” Parrish said; “Go home, get a decent sleep, eat a real dinner.”   
Karen looked like she was contemplating it but shook her head finally.  
“What if he wakes up for a minute and I’m not here?” 

“Fiona Goode, you stand before this council under the charges of gross neglect, malfeasance and a willful disregard for the safety of your inmates. How do you respond to these?”   
Fiona sat in a high wing-backed chair, like a Queen atop her throne, while the Board of Directors lambasted her with claims of incompetence, carelessness, cruelty and brutalization. She sighed.   
“Chief of Security Delphine LaLaurie is the one who should be sat here.” Fiona remarked, a cruel bite in her voice; “She’s the one who hired Jonas, not me. She was the one who was paid to have these people trained, and to keep her eye on them. Instead, she allowed him to run amok. Her ham-handed running of the security department is what caused this. How is any of this my fault?” 

“I didn’t know,” Henry Cavill said, his blue eyes sincere; “I underestimated how…cruel Nick Jonas could be. He’d always struck me as such a nice young man, if a little odd.”   
“Odd?” asked Cecily Pembroke from the head of the table; “Define what you mean?”   
“Well…” Cavill began; “I didn’t want to say anything for fear of embarrassing him, or of seeming in any way prejudicial…but he’d often make sexually charged comments toward me, and sometimes advances. Being a happily married man, I of course rebuffed him, and was terribly embarrassed for him.”   
“And what happened the night of January 25th?”   
Cavill sighed, his eyes dropping to the floor; “When I found the inmate X8998 on the floor, not breathing…I…I suppose I got a shock that Nick was capable of such callousness.”   
“And what would have happened…” began Cecily Pembroke, as the Board of Directors sat, jaws agape, listening to Henry’s heroic tale; “If you had not found the inmate that minute?”   
Henry shrugged; “I suppose he would be dead.” 

Delphine LaLaurie squirmed in the chair, and was obviously uncomfortable, as the beady eyes of the Board glared at her. Perspiring, she was the definition of shifty. It didn’t take long for her to falter, her credibility decimated, and the Board of Directors to go in for the kill. 

Karen Mendes awoke to an unfamiliar sound. Shawn’s heart monitor had maintained a steady rhythm for two weeks now, and Karen could memorize it. The sudden disruption to that rhythm awoke her from her light, uncomfortable sleep. A painful crick in her neck, she sat up in the chair and looked into the brown, open eyes of her son. 

His eyes had opened for less than a minute the first time, before flickering closed again. The next day, they opened for almost ten. He was incoherent and not altogether responsive, but Karen was overwhelmed with joy to even be able to look into her son’s eyes again.   
After two and a half weeks in a coma, Shawn Mendes began to wake up. Very slowly, his motor skills began to return, and there was no evidence of lasting brain damage. He was transferred back to Men’s Central Infirmary the next week under the watchful eye of Dr. Deaton.   
“You’re lucky to be alive.” Deaton said to him, as Shawn attempted his scrambled-egg breakfast through his morphine-induced haze, the first solid meal he’d had since waking up; “Somebody up there must like you.” 

A cold wind blew over the icy fields of rural California, a smattering of frost across the grassy, open lands. Stiles Stilinski shivered as he pulled at a sack of logs. Out of breath and panting, his body rigid against the chill morning air, he’d managed to load one bag on the truck, while the other inmates were in the 20s.   
Derek Hale walked by him, a sack in each arm, with a smug grin on his face; “Move it, Stilinski!” he said cockily.   
“Yeah, OK, muscles! You’re just making me look bad!” he retorted as he began pulling at the awkward bag.   
Stiles had been forced onto the “Goode Plan” against his will. Fiona needed someone to replace Shawn, who was still convalescing, and had chosen weak, scrawny Stiles for the job.   
This was their third day of moving bags of firewood, under the watchful eyes of Cavill and his troop of armed guards.   
As the rest of the inmates stood by the trucks, resting after their long morning’s work, Stiles still dragged and heaved at the bag of logs. Derek shook his head.   
Turning toward the van to ask for help, Stiles caught the flickering ember of red hair from the corner of his eye. He followed it down the chill field and his tea-colored eyes widened.   
Lydia Martin stood immediately downwind from him, her scarlet hair and pale skin luminous against the icy backdrop of rural California. She held a camera up to her face and snapped a picture. Stiles knew she recognized him too.   
Stretching his aching muscles, he began to haul at the bag again, before his prison-issue boot began to skid in the icy mud. He felt himself slip and could do little to stop it. His boot slipped through the mud and he completely lost his footing as he crashed into the muddy ground below him.   
Raucous peals of laughter came from all sides. Stiles’ face burned red with humiliation as Derek came into view, his green eyes wide; “Are you alright?”   
“I’m fine, dude!” Stiles yelled aggressively, as Derek grabbed the sack of logs and launched them up onto the truck.   
“Right, ladies!” Cavill roared; “Back on board, time for home! Stilinski, on your feet, get back on the bus!” 

Stiles was last to shower. He traipsed into the derelict shower room as most of the other “Goode Plan” inmates trooped out. Mud caked down his blue jumpsuit, he dropped it to the ground, revealing the long, red graze down the side of his milky skin from his humiliating fall in the field.   
He rubbed his tender skin and kicked off his boots, tripping over to where the frigid water pumped out and smacked against the tiled floor below. Breathing deeply, heavily, he prepared himself and ducked into the icy water, which cascaded down his body, making his nipples and nerves stand to attention. The hair on the nape of his neck began to stand on end, and he felt Derek Hale’s approach.   
As Derek’s jumpsuit fell to the ground, he walked slowly, cautiously toward the young Stiles. He turned, his brown eyes glaring at Derek’s naked, muscular form. He stepped into the freezing faucet alongside his younger cellmate. Stiles’ breath came short as Derek’s rough, manly hands began to caress his back. Shivering, Stiles rebuffed him.   
“Don’t, Derek.” He whispered; “Somebody might come in.”   
“So what?”   
Stiles stepped out of the faucet, a look of annoyance on his face.   
“Fuck off.”   
It had been muttered just loud enough for Derek to hear. His eyes widened in anger, and Stiles felt himself being pulled backward, his feet slipping on the tiled floor. A small screech exited his mouth as Hale slammed him against the shower wall, his hand wrapped tightly around Stilinski’s throat. His brown eyes bulged, and he gasped for breath as Derek’s emerald eyes glared sadistically at him.   
“What the fuck is your problem?” Derek asked quietly, his voice low and menacing. Stiles grabbed at his hand, his eyes determined. Staring him down, Hale released his vice-like grip and walked off to get dressed, leaving the breathless Stiles quivering in the ice-cold faucet. 

When the morphine kicked in to full effect, Shawn Mendes would babble incoherently. Staring blankly at the gray ceiling, his chocolate eyes were glazed and heavy. His dry, chapped lips moved almost silently, his once-velvet voice now croaking out a mumbled song as he stared toward the ceiling in a half-delirious sway.   
Dream on, dream on teenage queen, prettiest girl we’ve ever seen…   
In his dream-like haze, Shawn could hear muffled voices to his right. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, and as he turned his head, he felt the familiar wave of nausea and the crippling pain in his head. The rise of bile in his throat overpowered him and a line of hot, yellow bile spewed from his mouth. He spluttered, the morphine inhibiting his ability to clean himself up.   
As quickly as he’d woken, he faded off into blackness once again. 

“What the hell’s wrong with you? I thought I was giving you what you wanted?”   
From the bottom bunk of their cell, Stiles gave Derek a look of sheer disgust and rolled his eyes; “You have no idea what I want.” He snapped; “But a quickie in a prison shower? It’s definitely not that!”  
Derek rolled his eyes; “Well excuse the shit out of me that we’re not exactly in the Waldorf-Astoria right now.”   
Stiles stood up, his tea-colored eyes wide, and thin lips upturned in an almost child-like tantrum; “This isn’t about that!” he huffed; “I don’t want some five-minute fuck from you, and then you throw me away like it’s nothing…like…like I’m nothing.”   
Derek’s eyes were somber, his jaw set; “You’ll never be “nothing” to me.” His rough, masculine hands wrapped around Stiles’ waist, pulling the boy close. He resisted, pulling away.   
“Get off!” he hissed. Derek persisted, pulling the younger man close. Stiles pushed him back with a mighty force, shocking the “Wolf” into action. The younger man’s eyes full of tears, Derek grabbed his throat and stared him down. Back against the wall, Stiles’ eyes were pleading, his mouth agape. Hale’s eyes were dropped, melancholy darkness within his emerald irises. Stiles’ heart fluttered, he licked his lips as Derek Hale’s plump, pink lips curved into the vestiges of a smile. In seconds, their lips collided in a fiery embrace, both parties as shocked as the other, their tongues hot and wet against one another. Stiles allowed his hands to roam Derek’s t-shirt, finding their way below and caressing the hot, muscular flesh beneath.   
The older, stronger man still had his hand around Stiles’ throat, and used the other to pin the boy’s left arm against the wall, as he closed in and began to grind their bodies together. Stiles groaned as the “Wolf-Man” ground their rock-hard crotches together. The warmth and friction of their bodies burned them up, and beads of sweat began to form on every pore of their bodies.   
“Get. Into. Bed.” Derek growled under his breath between their hard, fiery kisses, his voice rasping passionately. 

Stiles lay on the creaking bottom bunk, his heart thundering in his ears. His jumpsuit cast to the floor, he lay in a Marvel t-shirt and his tight, black boxers. As Derek Hale slowly pulled his jumpsuit down over his muscular, rock-hard body, Stilinski began kneading his rock-hard dick through his boxers. When Derek’s suit finally fell to the floor, he crawled onto the bed and quickly straddled the squirming, horny boy underneath him. Both in their boxers, a thin layer of material separated their hot flesh. Grinding, Stiles began to moan, gasping and breathless. Derek grinned as he pulled off Stiles’ t-shirt, exposing his milky body and pert, stiff pink nipples.   
He shivered as Derek twisted his face away and began biting at his neck, making him whimper and silently beg for more.   
“Oh, Derek.” He rasped as his hips bucked involuntarily.   
Biting down on Stiles’ lip, Derek’s emerald eyes were playful and dominant, glittering with excitement as he plunged his tongue deep into his cellmate’s mouth, who could only groan in response, his hands meandering over Derek’s taut, broad back, feeling the heat from his skin as beads of sweat began to prickle on his body.   
The “Wolf-Man” began kissing down Stiles’ collarbone and chest, stopping when he reached his small, hard nipples. Tonguing the left one, every nerve ending on the young Stilinski’s body stood to attention. He gasped and moaned as Derek sucked his nipples, kissing down his skinny body toward the waistband of his boxers. As his tongue meandered at Stiles’ pubic line, where his dark brown pubic hair protruded from the waistband, Derek felt the younger man run his fingers through his own jet-black hair, gripping tightly.   
As Derek nuzzled Stiles’ rock-hard crotch and began to take his still-clothed cock in his mouth, the boy began to grunt uncontrollably.   
“Please…please…take it off.” He whispered.   
When Derek peeled off Stiles’ boxers, and his plump, girthy cock sprang out, Derek was surprised at its size. For the skinny runt that Stiles was, his penis was thick, long and beautifully pink, set among a dark, curled patch of pubic hair. Derek marveled at it, licking his lips voraciously before slowly, agonizingly lowering his head, and he began to lightly tickle the head with his tongue, lipping at the foreskin, as salty pre-cum began to soak his lips, making Stiles squirm and gasp;   
“Oh, Jesus! Oh, fuckkkkkk!” 

Stiles Stilinski quivered as he opened his mouth, Derek’s eyes wide and trained on him. Stilinski had gulped when he’d seen Derek’s monstrously thick, pulsing manhood again. Now that Hale’s thick thighs sandwiched his head, he was daunted by the task ahead of him. Horny and bursting at the seams, he gulped at Derek’s girthy cock and took half of it in his mouth, the alpha Derek biting his lip and cursing under his breath.   
“Fuck, yeah. Take it all.”   
He thrusted, making Stiles choke. Determined to please, Stiles tongued the underside of Derek’s shaft and sucked with all his might, his head bobbing as the “Wolf of Beacon Hills” began to thrust into his mouth. 

Shawn Mendes awoke, his vision blurry and his mouth tasting of vomit. A crushing pain in his head, he felt dizzy. His wandering eyes began to come into focus as Alan Deaton stood at the bottom of the bed, an observation chart in his hand.   
“You’re awake.” He said with a smile. Shawn gasped, his throat scratchy and tight. He hissed trying to speak.   
“Water.” He rasped. Dr. Deaton marched to his bedside and poured him a glass of water and extended the straw to the invalid Mendes. He sipped through the straw, the room-temperature water cascading down his burning throat and cooling him, vanquishing his thirst, sip by sip.   
“Careful,” Deaton said; “We don’t want it coming right back up again.”   
Shawn gasped after draining the glass and rested his head back on the pillow, his pain beginning to subside.   
“I’m sorry,” Dr. Deaton said; “I know you said no visitors, but there’s someone very important here to see you.” 

Stiles Stilinski spluttered as he gave head to Derek, thick, hard, hot meat penetrating every inch of his mouth and throat. Grunting and thrusting, Derek reached around and began to tug on Stiles’ hard, pulsating member, much to the squirming delight of the younger man below, whose hips bucked, and chest heaved.   
His rough, manly hands squeezed and pulled at Stiles’ tight foreskin, where pre-cum now dribbled over his hand, lubricating it loosely. Sweating and panting, he thrusted ever harder into the boy’s mouth, whose jaw tightened as he sucked harder and harder, and Derek’s deep, guttural grunting became louder and louder.   
Quickly and without warning, Stiles Stilinski erupted, spewing thick, hot ropes of come onto Derek’s hand and up his back. He bucked and grunted below, as Derek pounded into his mouth voraciously, and suddenly, his thrusts became slow, painstaking, as he gasped, grunted and cussed his way into an uncontrollable fit of ecstasy, semen spewing down Stiles’ throat, and all over his nose and lips. 

As Stiles Stilinski and Derek Hale reached a screaming, pulsating climax, Shawn Mendes dozed in and out of consciousness, until he heard a man's voice which permeated so deep in his subconscious that he couldn’t help but come crashing back down to earth with a very bumpy landing.   
“Hello, Son. I’ve been looking for you.”


	22. Unforgiven: Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The more things change, the more they stay the same. When Shawn is released from the infirmary, he must accustom to the dramatic changes which have occurred in his absence.

Shawn couldn’t tell if it was the painkillers or if his father’s face really was looking back at him. He blinked a few times, adamant that the face would disappear. He gasped as Manuel Mendes sat silently, a quizzical, almost puzzled look on his face.   
“Can you hear me, Shawn?” he asked. A nod was the answer. His throat still raw and scratchy from his oxygen tube, Shawn croaked.   
“You’re here.”   
Manuel nodded; “I’m here.”   
The years had changed him, his beard and hair now freckled with gray, and the lines around his dark eyes slightly more pronounced, but there he sat in front of his grown son, his hands clasped, and head slightly bowed. Shawn’s chocolate eyes were wide and unblinking.   
“I don’t have long,” Manuel whispered in his rounded Portuguese accent, his dark eyes boring into his son as he leaned closer. “One day,” he said, “When you are far from this place, I will tell you everything I’m sure you want to know. I left to keep you and your Mother safe, that was all I ever cared about.”   
He took a deep breath, postulating his next statement; “You are to have no more dealings with the Southside Creepers, do you understand? None whatsoever. Your debts to them are paid, as are theirs to you. I want you nowhere near them, understood?”   
Shawn nodded in the affirmative, his mouth agape and eyes wide, trying to fathom that his father, who had been absent for five years, was sat before him in a prison hospital. Manuel tried to hide his tears which were forming behind his glasses. He took a deep, quivering breath.   
“This fight is over now, but there will be many more to come.” Manuel Mendes stood from his seat and tried to smile at his son; “I love you, my beautiful son. Take care of yourself. If your Mother keeps going the way she is, you’ll be out of here in no time. I will see you very soon.”   
Shawn’s parting whispering croak said “wait”, as his father waved on his way out of the door. Shawn Mendes was alone again, his mind full of more questions than answers. 

“Men’s Central Jail is an archaic, derelict hole where people are sent to die. Inside its crumbling walls are 17,000 men in a prison built for 6000.”   
Cordelia Foxx spoke proudly on the steps of the Criminal Courts building, where television cameras were trained on her.   
“The video which we have all seen is testament to the horror that goes on in that place. A 20-year-old man was mercilessly beaten into a coma while his hands were cuffed, by one of the very guards who was there to protect him. We won that case, and we can easily win another. That’s why today, my client and I would like to announce our intention to launch a class action lawsuit against the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation, for negligence, police brutality and excessive force.”   
Karen Mendes stood at her side, her face stony and tear-streaked. She grimaced slightly as the injuries to her son were recounted, but her face began to glow with a beam of silent pride and quiet determination as she fought for the rights of her son.   
Lydia Martin extended her microphone; “Miss Foxx, it’s true that your mother, Fiona Goode, is the Warden of Men’s Central Jail, and it’s no secret that your…I believe, estranged husband is now her deputy?”   
Cordelia looked wounded as she plastered a smile across her pale face; “My personal life is of no concern to this case, and my personal relationships will not be allowed to affect my work in this case in any way.”   
Lydia Martin spun around to face her camera-man, her big eyes wide and soft red hair blowing in the stiff wind as Cordelia Foxx and Karen Mendes were led into a waiting car. Lydia Martin glared into the lens;   
“It would appear that for Karen Mendes, and for Men’s Central Jail, that this is far from over. I’m Lydia Martin. Back to you in the studio, Jerry.” 

The rehabilitation took forever. It took almost a week for Shawn to be able to stand without vomiting, let alone walking. He was unsteady and nauseated, beads of sweat forming on his upper lip as he stumbled, unaided around the infirmary ward.   
He’d had no lasting brain damage, just some hairline fractures and severe bruising, which had begun to clear itself up.   
Within a few days, the painkillers were gone, and Shawn finally felt like himself again. Ravenous, he wolfed down any food he could lay his hands on. Alan Deaton laughed;   
“Good thing you’re going back downstairs tomorrow, we can’t keep you going on food!” 

With a spring in his step and a smile on his face, Shawn Mendes was marched back down into general population. Upon seeing his own cell door, he was thrilled to see Tom. They had so much to talk about.   
“Prepare for entry!”   
As the door screamed open, Shawn beamed as his eyes connected with Tom’s. He smiled, but it was feigned, as his eyes darted to the other side of the room. Shawn’s eyes followed and a flicker of flame seemed to burn through his body. He looked different, gaunt in the heinous orange jumpsuit, but the black, beady eyes of Nick Jonas looked back at Shawn.   
Aflame with rage, the cell door slammed, and Shawn Mendes was across the room in a flash. Tom leapt back as Shawn flung himself at Jonas, who reeled after the well-aimed uppercut. Stumbling backward, Jonas’ eyes were blazing as Shawn lunged at him again. With a sleight of hand, Jonas grabbed Shawn’s arm and twisted it backward, up his back, effectively restraining the young Canadian from behind. Shawn dropped to his knees, writhing in pain.   
“Stop. It.” Jonas growled into his ear; “You won’t win.”   
The chair had risen swiftly and come down with a powerful velocity.   
Two legs had broken off the chair with an almighty crack as it had come down and connected with the head of Nick Jonas, who now lay unconscious, a thin trail of blood trickling from the back of his head. Shawn gasped as Tom Holland held the remnants of the chair in his shaking hands. Holland had never really been in a physical fight before, let alone knocked somebody unconscious. Shawn stood up and checked Jonas’ breathing, which was thankfully okay.   
“Jesus, Tommy. Fuck.” He gasped; “I wasn’t expecting that.”   
“Honestly, mate.” Tom rasped; “Neither was I.” 

“Now what?” Tom asked.  
Shawn shrugged; “This was your idea.”   
Nick Jonas lay spread-eagled on the single bed which had been added to the cell. He lay soundly, out-cold and breathing heavily. Both his arms and legs had been tied using the bedsheets and articles of his clothing. The dinner call had started, and they checked their restraints before heading down for food. 

Stiles beamed to see Shawn approaching; “Canada!” he called with a cheeky smile; “Nice of you to re-join the living! You seem to have been on quite the adventure!”  
Shawn smiled; “Thanks, Stiles.”   
“Better watch out, though.” Derek said, as he raised his head; “You’ve met your new cellmate, I imagine?”   
Shawn and Tom squirmed in their seats, and the Wolf of Beacon Hills was onto them instantly.   
“What?” he asked, as Tom and Shawn dropped their eyes; “What are you two cooking up?” 

“Ha!”   
Stiles’ high squeal could be heard throughout the cavernous dining room, and he was quick to cover his mouth, his brown eyes dancing with delight. “You’re serious? You tied him up?” he asked, his mouth agape.   
Tom nodded; “I don’t even know what to do! If we let him loose, he’ll kill both of us! We can’t beat him in a fight, and we can’t keep him tied up forever!”   
“Could always kill him?” Stiles suggested, his voice a little too serious for everyone’s liking. The other three boys turned to him, their eyes questioning. Stiles shrugged; “OK, we’ll pretend I was the only one thinking it, then!”   
“What about blackmail? Have you got any dirt on him?” Derek asked. Shawn shook his head.   
“He’s in jail, what else does he have to lose?”   
Derek smirked; “His pride. Take that away from him, and he’ll eat from the palm of your hand.”   
Shawn looked confused, and Stiles looked like he had an epiphany.   
“You could use the torture methods of the Han Dynasty?”   
Shawn narrowed his eyes, and Tom looked lost. Stiles smiled venomously, his eyes dancing with mischief as he began to regale them in glorious detail. 

Two days after Shawn was beaten insensible by Nick Jonas, Fiona Goode, Henry Cavill and Delphine LaLaurie were called into official investigative meetings and the prison was sanctioned for its failures to protect prisoners. Delphine LaLaurie was formally dismissed and left tearfully. While some of Fiona’s powers had been stripped, she remained the Warden, and Henry Cavill assumed a new role as Deputy Warden, essentially shaving some of Fiona’s powers to himself. They sat in her plush office that she refused to share, discussing how to move forward under their new sanctions.   
“The officers can no longer do as they please,” Fiona said, lighting a Marlboro; “We need to close ranks and deal with everything internally now, that starts by watching our own asses, not screwing the inmates or each other.”   
Henry smiled; “It’s not that easy, Fiona. They’ve been used to pleasing themselves for so long, it’ll be hard to reign them in.”   
“Jesus,” Fiona huffed; “Do we have anybody who isn’t corrupt around here?”   
“You set a fabulous example.” He replied contentedly. Fiona let it slide.   
“Everything we do,” she said, taking a long drag on her cigarette; “will have to be above board or very discreet, otherwise we’re all done for.” 

When Shawn and Tom re-entered their cell, and the door screeched to a close, Nick Jonas lay awake, his arms and legs spread-eagled where they’d been left, and his brown eyes furious.   
“Let me go.” He said flatly and calmly.   
Tom smiled; “Oh, I don’t think so, Nicky. See, when you used to take me down to the workshop, I’d cry, scream, beg you to stop. And still you’d carry on, with a smile on your face. I think it’s high time you know how that feels.”   
“Let. Me. Go.” He growled, his teeth set.   
Shawn’s pink lips curled into his heartbreaking iceberg smile as he eyed the captive Jonas squirming on the bed.   
“I agree, Tommy. I think its high time this asshole got a taste of his own medicine.”   
“You fucking assholes!” Jonas hissed; “Just wait ‘til I get outta these, I’ll kill both of you!”   
The boys laughed; “I really would think about what you’re saying while you’re the one tied up.”   
Jonas raised his head, his teeth set and grinding as his eyes were wild with fury.   
“I. Will. Fucking. Kill. You.”   
Shawn laughed in his face; “Come on, Tommy. Let’s see how tough Nicky really is.”   
In one swift movement, Tom ripped Nick’s white tank top and revealed his tanned, sculpted abs. Meanwhile Shawn grabbed his Adidas sneakers and slipped them off, revealing his white ankle socks.   
“Are you going to rape me?” Nick asked, his voice surprisingly calm.   
“No.” Shawn said flatly; “Nick, we’re not like you.”   
Tom Holland meandered around to the top of the bed, and stared down into Nick’s face, a devious grin on his cheeky face. With a slight hand movement, Tom lightly scraped Nick’s delicate armpit flesh with his long, slender fingers. Nick elicited a small yelp as he did, much to Tom and Shawn’s amusement.   
“Are you ticklish, Nicky?” Tom asked, as he dug one finger into Nick’s armpit, making the young former officer grunt and squirm.   
“No, man, get the fuck off me!”   
“Now, now.” Tom said in his clipped English accent; “There’s no need for language, Mr. Jonas.”   
“I’ve got three brothers!” Jonas snapped; “I’ve been tickled before like you wouldn’t believe, so go ahead, do your worst!”   
Tom and Shawn laughed, as Tom flicked his slender hands into Jonas’ pits and began to scribble at the lightly hairy, soft armpits. Jonas set his jaw and closed his eyes, his body unmoving. He grunted and screamed internally as the boy scratched and scraped at his defenseless body.   
Shawn smiled a cruel smile as he peeled off Jonas’ slightly dirty white ankle socks, to reveal his smooth, lightly tanned soles. Shawn grinned deviously as he dragged one of his long, slender, guitar-picking fingers up Nick Jonas’ tender sole, which made the former officer yelp and squirm.   
“Don’t!” he demanded, but Shawn merely laughed and did it again, eliciting the same response. Tom let out a small chuckle before he went in for the kill.   
Nick’s screams could be heard throughout the whole cell block, much to the amusement of the other prisoners.   
Peals of painful, screeching laughter as he begged them to stop. His face was beet red as Tom’s delicate fingers scribbled at his vulnerable armpits, and Shawn scratched delicately on his exposed soles, before slipping his fingers in between Nick’s vulnerable toes, making his screams turn silent, and tears drip down his face, as he silently screamed a plea for help. Tom laughed and began a vicious assault on Nick’s exposed abs, scratching up and down them, making him screech and yelp, his hips bucking, and his tear-stained face contorting into a mask of pain, rage and humiliation.   
“He ain’t no king of the castle now!” Shawn taunted.   
“Fuck you!” Nick swore through his deep, guttural breaths as he was given a momentary reprieve from his torture. Shawn’s brown eyes widened;   
“Fuck me, eh? Just for that remark, Nicky, you’re about to get a special treat!”   
The arrogant ex-officer roared as Tom grabbed his pert, pink nipples and twisted them, holding them in place as Jonas squirmed and screeched, pleading as his skin got redder by the second.   
The hatch on the cell door screeched open; and Henry Cavill’s icy blue eyes stared through. Dancing with mischief, his eyes were smiling;   
“Gentlemen,” he said; “The whole prison can hear you. I don’t give a fuck if you want to torture that piece of shit to death, but a little quieter would be nice, I’m getting a headache.”   
“Henry, please help me!” Nick squealed as the hatch was slammed closed again.   
Tom laughed at the top of the bed; “What did you used to say to me? Oh yeah, “nobody is coming to help you”. Isn’t this the ultimate twist?”   
Nick’s brown eyes started to plead; “Look, Tommy, I’m sorry. Please, just let me go, I’ll do whatever you want to make it up to you.”   
“Oh, so now you wanna grovel?” Shawn laughed; “Too late, bro. You nearly killed me, and I believe in fair play, you’re lucky this is all we’re doing to you.”   
“Let me go!” Nick howled, rattling the bed, his face beet red with humiliation and anger.   
Shawn laughed as he stuffed Nick’s own socks in his mouth, shoving them deep, gagging him, as his eyes narrowed with fury, then began to widen with terror.   
“Now, that’ll keep him shut up for a minute.” Shawn said as he re-assumed his position at the end of the bed; “Tommy”, he said; “Let’s tickle Nicky until he pisses himself.”   
Nick’s deep, guttural roars for mercy fell on deaf ears as he was gagged with his own socks. His toes curled under Shawn’s expert fingers, as they scratched at his delicate soles. Tom’s fingers launched a merciless attack on his ribs, pits and abs, which sent the young Nick wild. His body jerked and contorted as if he were having a seizure, as tears streamed from his eyes. Veins popped in his forehead as he screeched and roared for mercy, as Tom and Shawn giggled at his torment.   
Buckled and defeated, Nick sobbed as he lost control of his bladder, his fresh urine soaking through his joggers and permeating the mattress below him. He groaned as his face burned red, degraded and shamed.   
“Awww, Nicky had a widdle accident!” Tom mocked from above him, slapping his face lightly and repeatedly.   
Shawn laughed as he approached the former guard.   
“I’m gonna take your gag out now,” he said; “But if you scream, or say something out of line, it goes right back in and we’ll do so much worse. Understood?”   
Nick nodded gently as Shawn removed the socks from Nick’s tear-stained, red face.   
“Now,” Shawn said quietly; “I think you have something to say to Tommy and me.”   
Nick’s choked, breathless voice came in short, sharp bursts; “I’m sorry,” he whispered; “I’m so sorry, both of you.”   
Shawn brought his face close to Nick’s, and the older man could feel the heat of the young Canadian’s breath as he whispered in his ear; “I. Don’t. Believe. You.” 

The bed creaked as Shawn Mendes lay his full weight on top of Nick Jonas, smiling a mischievous smile.   
“Now,” he said, kicking off his sneakers as he sat on Nick’s midriff; “you ready for this?”   
“Get the fuck off me, asshole!” Nick protested, his attitude beginning to flare again. Shawn smiled, the usually mild-mannered Canadian now ready to extinguish that attitude once and for all. The insult gave Shawn the ammunition he needed to really rock the cocky screw.   
He shoved Nick’s head from side to side with his socked feet, making Nick squirm and grunt in discomfort. Just as he was ready to spit another insult in Shawn’s direction, Shawn’s black socked foot landed right in Nick’s face, blocking him from saying a word. He moaned and grunted as he was forced to smell Shawn’s foot.   
“How does that smell, Nicky?” Tom taunted from the top of the bed; “Bet you’re enjoying this, huh?”   
“Please, stop!” Nick moaned as Shawn planted both feet on his face, rubbing them into the cocky Jonas’ nose and lips. Nick gagged as Shawn’s socked toes were forced into his mouth, his dark eyes pleading.   
Shawn laughed as he began removing his socks. Murmured protests ensued as Shawn planted his naked feet in Jonas’ face, rubbing them over his nose and stuffing his toes in Nick’s big mouth, forcing him to taste the salty aroma of his young, pink toes.   
“Fuck!” Tom groaned; “This shouldn’t be turning me on!” he laughed.   
As Nick’s tongue was forced out, Shawn dragged his smooth, pink sole down it, making Nick gag with humiliation.   
“Come on, Tommy!” Shawn said, “Get in on this.” 

As Tom and Shawn traded places, the young Englishman kicked off his sneakers and peeled off his socks, forcing his young, smaller feet into Jonas’ face and giggling.   
“Lick them, Nicky!”   
Defeated, Nick knew he had no choice, and began tonguing the soles of his former victim. As Tom spread his toes, Nick was forced to lick between them, gagging and spluttering as he was forced to worship the feet of the men he’d brutalized.   
“Not so good when the shoes on the other foot!” Tom laughed as he spat into Jonas’ contorted, scarlet face. 

Nick Jonas sobbed as lights out was called, and his socks were forced back into his mouth, as he lay tied up, stinking of his own urine, and the taste of feet still in his mouth.   
Shawn and Tom clambered into bed with devious smiles on their faces as their brutalizer lay sobbing, broken and humiliated.   
All the while, despite his best efforts, Shawn Mendes could not disguise his own hardened arousal. He played with himself silently in the dark, and reached a deep, hot orgasm which seared through his body, the first one in what seemed like forever.


	23. Vestiges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wounded animal backed into a corner is the most dangerous kind. A weakened Fiona Goode formulates a hellish plan, and Nick Jonas begins to open up to his new cellmates in a final bid for forgiveness.

It was an idea born in the pits of a hellish mind, one without a conscience and with no regard for human life. The Goode Plan was born and baptized in deceit and treachery. The backbreaking work had been a front for a much more sinister ideal.   
The macabre bourgeois friends of Fiona Goode had each placed their bets months ago. The work on local farms and quarries had stood the felons in good stead for what was to come. 

“You signed on the dotted line, and your ass belongs to me.”   
Derek Hale’s green eyes narrowed, as Fiona Goode glared across her desk, her eyes wild with fury. Derek smiled devilishly;   
“You know your contracts can’t hold up in court, right?”   
Fiona grinned wickedly; “No, but an affidavit will. Shall I regale the court about how you snapped the leg of a fellow inmate, which required it to be amputated at the knee? About how you are a threat to society and the death penalty should be re-instated? I can go on you know…”   
Derek’s eyes dropped, his face one of resignation but also of bitter determination.   
“Fine.” He snapped; “I’ll do it.”   
“Thought you’d see it my way,” she grimaced.   
“But I want Stilinski out.”   
Fiona darted round in her chair, an unlit cigarette dangling from her mouth.   
“Wasn’t the whole point…” she asked, her eyes darting; “that you wanted to kill that incessant little asshole? And I gave you the means to do it? Why the change of heart?”   
Derek remained steely; “I want him out of this.”   
Fiona’s crimson lips slashed into a gaping, croaky laugh; “Don’t tell me you’re suddenly soft on the boy?” she cackled; “Oh, how precious! And so, the lion falls in love with the lamb…could you be more of a pathetic, cheap cliché?”   
Hale’s face remained unmoved, staring blankly ahead.   
“Ok…” Fiona sighed, flicking ash in the general direction of the ashtray; “I’ll let your little boy-toy go, but Mendes will stay. And if, when that time comes, will you do what is required?”   
Derek’s green eyes rose to meet hers, his face remaining emotionless; “I will do whatever is necessary.”   
Fiona smiled; “Good. Because if you don’t, or you deviate from our plan whatsoever, little Stilinski is back in the game, and I’ll have him served to you for breakfast, in tiny, bite-size pieces.” 

Shawn awoke before the usual pounding and hollering with a desperate urge to pee. As he clambered down and relieved himself, he could hear the sniffles of his newest cellmate, who had relieved himself again through the night.   
Walking across the room, the fetid stench of urine was burning Shawn’s nostrils as he bent over the tortured, scared Nick Jonas.   
“I’m gonna take your gag out,” Shawn whispered; “and if you make a noise, it goes back in, OK?”   
Nick nodded, his eyes wide and pleading. Shawn cautiously removed the soaked makeshift gag from Jonas’ mouth, who gasped in relief.  
“Please…” Jonas groaned; “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Mendes. I’m so sorry.”   
“What you did,” Shawn began, standing to his full height, yet far enough back that the stench of urine was bearable; “to me, to Tom, and to whoever else, was sick, cruel and inhuman. You probably deserve to boil in your own shit for some things you’ve done. But my Mother always taught me something; two wrongs don’t make a right.”   
Jonas nodded, red-eyed and a solemn look on his face as he humbly looked up at his once-captive victim.   
“You won’t be given a second chance,” Shawn said; “to hurt me, or anybody else. You’ve been sentenced, and you’re gonna get what you deserve in here. There’s no need for me to prolong it.”   
Jonas nodded; “C-can I get up n-now, please?”   
Shawn nodded and began to untie him. 

“Why did you let that arsehole up?”   
Tom’s hair was wild as he awoke, eyeing Jonas standing at the sink, washing the stench of urine off himself as the guards roared for morning roll-call.   
“It’s done, Tommy.” Shawn said; “We can’t keep dwelling on it, gotta move on.”   
Tom grunted and clambered down to start the new day. 

“Derek, what do you think “DTF” means?”   
Derek’s face remained steely and staring blankly ahead as the hyperactive Stiles blabbered on and on over breakfast.   
“Just tell me,” Stiles insisted after Derek’s dramatic sigh; “What do you think “DTF” means?”   
“Down to Fucking kill Stiles?” he replied, perking up slightly. The younger man looked shocked and offended;   
“No, no.” he said; “You were meant to say, “Down to Fuck”, then I was gonna say “Sure, where?” and now you’ve just ruined it. You ruined it, dude!”   
“I wish somebody’d ruin you.”   
Derek Hale’s salvation came in the form of Shawn Mendes and Tom Holland as they approached, trays in hand.   
“You know what’s weird?” Shawn asked as they sat down.   
“Why Ex-Officer Prick-Face is still breathing?” Stiles asked, as the boys watched a sleep-deprived Jonas enter the dining room and have his leg tripped. Stiles sniggered, clearly amused.   
“Never mind about him,” Shawn said; “Why haven’t we still got decent food?”   
“Aw, shit! You didn’t hear?!” Tom asked; “When you went to the infirmary, Jonas went on trial. He pled guilty but he opened his trap about everything, exposed Cavill’s affair, and now Cavill’s wife has left him, and named him in the lawsuit against the prison service!”   
“Guess your deal’s off, bro.” Stiles said, picking apart a bread roll.  
“Fuck…” Shawn whispered; “I have been outta touch!”   
“Sooooo….” Stiles asked, a shit-eating grin on his face; “What happened with Jonas last night? How’d it go? Tell Stiles!” 

As Tom regaled Stiles with all the gory details of the previous evening, Shawn seemed distant, his chocolate eyes staring into the distance until Derek Hale’s gruff voice came breaking through.   
“Hey,” he grunted. Shawn looked up; “You ok?”   
The young Canadian nodded; “Yeah, man. It was just, ah…I got a visit from my Dad when I was in the infirmary…and I don’t know how he knew where I was. It kinda dawned on me there.”   
Derek nodded and turned his face back to his greasy, fat-streaked bacon rasher; “No idea.” 

The baking, muggy heat of the prison laundry made Shawn sweat profusely, beads running down his red, panting face in the dingy lights. However, a voice whispering in his ear sent chills down his spine.  
“I suppose congratulations are in order, you’ve surprised me once again.”   
Henry Cavill’s deep English accent made the hairs on Shawn’s neck stand on end.   
“When you came in here,” he continued, as the young inmate turned to face the now Deputy Warden; “I thought you were a lanky drink of water that wouldn’t last two days without screaming for Mummy. I suppose I was half-wrong.”   
Shawn looked confused, his eyebrows wriggling; “Erm…thanks, I guess.”   
Cavill smiled; “Don’t think for one second I forgot about your little blackmailing scheme. I put Jonas in with you to…teach you a lesson, so to speak. Sounds more like you taught him one. I’m impressed, X8998. Well done. As I’m sure you’ll appreciate, our deal is now off, now that Nick is incarcerated, and my wife knows everything. Contract terminated. You’ll understand that you won’t ever blackmail me again, or what Jonas gave you will be a mere appetizer compared to what I’ll have in store for you. On the other hand, I will seek no retribution. Seeing your becoming has been satisfying enough. Keep up the good work. See you later.” 

The showers were abuzz, the usual sound of inane chatter and masculine banter seemingly magnified tenfold as Nick Jonas walked silently toward the showers. He could hear the sniggers, the jeers and taunts of his former charges.   
“Not so tough when he stinks of his own piss!”   
“Coochie-coochie-coo! Nicky’s ticklish, I hear!”   
His face burned scarlet as he washed under the constant stares, slaps and taunts.  
“For the record,” came the cut-glass English accent from beside him; “Shawn might have forgiven you, but I never will.”   
Tom Holland’s brown eyes glared at Nick through the jet of icy water, his gaze unmoving and face solid. Nick nodded silently and continued to wash. 

Stiles could feel the bed vibrate. A constant, jerking rhythm in the darkness. Straining his ears, he could faintly hear Derek’s soft, silent grunting.   
“What are you doing?” he asked, tearing his eyes away from the dreary magazine he was reading. Derek cleared his throat;   
“Nothing.”   
“Dude!” Stiles called as his head poked down from the top bunk, eyeing his cellmate and part-time lover; “Were you jerking off?”   
“No, idiot!” Derek growled, his face turning red. Stiles sniggered;   
“Bro, you totally were! What was it about?”   
Derek smiled a mischievous grin; “What Shawn and Tom did to Jonas. Man, that was hot!”   
“Oh yeah?” Stiles said, mockingly offended; “And my services suddenly aren’t good enough?”   
Derek laughed; “Oh, my vanilla little Stiles, you couldn’t be kinky though you tried.”   
“Fuck you!” Stiles moaned, clambering down from the top bunk; “I can totally be kinky! BDSM, all that kinda shit, man! I can dig it!”   
His cellmate nodded as he sat up, his green eyes mocking, and lips smirking; “You don’t know what you’re talking about, do you?”   
Stiles shrugged; “Not a clue. But I can learn!”   
Derek grunted; “Wanna get in here and take a lesson then?”

Stiles crawled into the bed, his joggers tight around his ever-expanding crotch as Derek Hale’s stubble grazed his smooth, milky face as they kissed, deep and long. The slaps landed light to begin with, before Derek flipped Stiles over and pulled down his gray jogging pants, revealing his soft, pert, alabaster ass. He smiled before bringing his rough, masculine hand down on the pale flesh, making the boy beneath him squirm and moan.   
“Count ‘em.” Derek commanded as he landed another crack on Stiles’ bare ass.   
“One…two…three…” Stiles groaned in unison with the hard slaps.   
When they reached twenty, and Stiles’ ass was a mottled tartan, Derek grabbed both his peachy cheeks and spread them wide, before bringing a finger ever closer.   
Stiles leapt up, his brown eyes pleading and hand on Derek’s.   
“No, Derek!” he gushed, his mouth agape and eyes wild; “I…I can’t. I’m sorry, I’m not ready.”   
Derek’s emerald eyes dropped; “I understand.” He said in a low, husky voice; “I’m sorry. We don’t have to do anything.”   
They lay together, Stiles’ head on Derek’s hairy chest, listening to the thumping of the Alpha Male’s heart. He let out a soft snigger;   
“For the record, dude. What Canada and Tommy do is their business, but no way in hell am I ever licking your feet!”   
Derek laughed, kissing Stiles’ forehead gently as lights out was called. 

The bed creaked under Nick’s weight as he sat on the edge, his head low, and hands clasped. His exhausted eyes painted a picture all their own. His swollen, black eye and bust lip told their own story.  
“When I was a little boy,” he said; “my Mom used to work late. I’d come home from school to my stepfather. He was already drunk by then, usually. My brothers had already left home by then, so it was just him and me. It started off with little things, a comment here, a little pinch there. It got to be that he used to touch me, always more and more. When my Mom got home and I told her, she slapped me and called me a “liar”.”   
The tears formed in his eyes, stinging and red. He let out a small, involuntary laugh.  
“I lost count how many times he raped me after that. Called me a “whore” and told me how I was asking for it.”   
Shawn and Tom stood flabbergasted as Nick laid his horrific childhood bare.   
“It kept going until I was fifteen, and I ran away. I learned quickly how to use sex to my advantage, how to play with people, how to…torment them. Get them to do whatever I wanted.” He looked up, tears streaking down his face, his eyes honest; “I don’t expect to be forgiven for what I’ve done to you guys. All I can tell you is that I’m sorry. I know what it’s like to feel used, to feel exploited. I never should have done that, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”   
Shawn stood, his mouth agape and lost for words. Tom sat on the bed opposite and shrugged his shoulders.   
“You’ve had a shit run of it, mate.” He said sympathetically; “But I reckon you’re not sorry at all, just really sorry you’re in jail and in here with us. I don’t accept your apology, and I don’t forgive you. Now, I’ve got another one, two years tops to serve and I guess I’ve got to serve them with you. You’ll sit there and shut up, and stay away from me while I do that, and that’s all there is to it.”   
Nick raised his head from the floor, a peculiar glint in his eye; some vestige of his smirking self still remained.   
“What if I told you there was a way out of here?”


	24. Requiem for a Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pervasive dreams harbour dangerous secrets, as Derek Hale and Shawn Mendes can both attest. The boys begin to debate Nick Jonas' offer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, this is the long awaited Chapter 24! I really hope you enjoy it! Sorry it took so long but, you know, life happened x

The dream had come in the still of the night, erupting into Shawn’s unconscious mind like a bullet. He lay in the center of the dark, concrete room, his body naked and dirty as they glared at him. Masked figures stood in a circle around him, torturing him with their silent stares. Their black, monk-like robes betrayed nothing. And their demonic masks hid only black eyes. He could feel himself scream, but no sound would come, as the menacing figures stood motionless. Try though he may, his muscles were leaden, he couldn’t stand, couldn’t run, he could only lie there, screaming in fear as a dim light flooded through the cracks in the brick walls he found himself trapped inside.   
Trapped. Breathless.   
The figures came closer, descending their masked faces and robed bodies down on him. With them came the walls, which crept ever closer, threatening to crush him. Sweating, panting, begging, he could do nothing but let the darkness enshrine him.   
He awoke, bolt upright in his bunk, gasping for air, beads of sweat pouring from every pore on his body.   
The clear yellow light of morning filtered in through the high, barred window of the cell, casting a bright glow on Nick Jonas’ face as he looked over at the quivering Canadian opposite him. His dark eyes met with Shawn’s and he raised his eyebrows.   
“You OK?”   
Shawn nodded snappily. The last thing he needed was Nick Jonas this morning.   
“Look, man, it’s none of my business, but maybe you need to speak to someone.” He continued as Shawn stood up to wash his face. Groggily on his feet, Shawn sneered;   
“You’re right, it is none of your business.”   
“All I’m saying is that if you talk to someone, the dreams will pass. Two weeks now, you’ve woken up like that.”   
Shawn sighed as he splashed icy water on his face; “Who would I talk to? That batshit Myrtle Snow?”   
“No,” Jonas said; “My psychiatrist makes prison calls, I can get her to come to you?”   
Shawn shook his head contemptuously; “I don’t want anything from you.” 

When Derek Hale had re-entered his cell at a little after midnight, Stiles was concerned. The “Wolf-Man” looked tired, sweaty and haggard, his face hollow and closed.   
“Hey, Der.” Stiles tried to smile in the half-darkness of the early summer night. A grunt was the response.   
“What happened?” Stiles asked, mentioning the fact that Derek had been whisked away before dinner and not returned until now. Concern in his voice, Stiles broached the subject tentatively, mindful of his easy-to-anger cellmate-cum-lover.   
“I don’t wanna talk about it.” He grumbled, undressing slowly, wincing every time he moved. “Goodnight.”   
As dawn broke the next morning, Derek stood at the sink, a visible bruise appearing on his left cheek. Tribal tattoos on full display, Hale stood naked, immersing himself in the frigid water, the pipes of the sink squealing into life. Stiles admired the view, chin in his hands. He pretended not to notice Derek’s scraped, bruised knuckles. 

It was at breakfast that the news broke. Deaths of prisoners were dime-a-dozen, but Henry Cavill was subtle as a brick when he stopped by Shawn Mendes.   
“Just thought I’d let you know,” he said, mock concern in his voice; “That Cameron Dallas…entered immortality…last night at around 11pm. Thought you’d like to know.”   
Shockwaves rolled over Shawn’s body as he nodded;   
“Thanks for letting me know, Mr. Cavill.”   
The moments of silence were telling. Tom was visibly uncomfortable.   
“You good, bro?” he asked in *that* voice.   
Shawn gasped; “I’m good, man. I just…kinda don’t know how to feel. Should I feel anything?”   
“I’m telling you, man. You should see my psychiatrist, she’s fantastic. She helps you to, like, deal with feelings and stuff.”   
Nick’s voice was as welcome as a fart in a phone-booth. Shawn and Tom glowered across the table at him, Tom was first to speak.   
“Look, pig. If I were you, I’d keep my fucking mouth shut.” 

“I’m sorry, guys. This is a wild goose chase, and he’s lying his ass off! It’s, like, glaringly obvious.”   
Stiles was first to rain on the parade as Tom and Shawn told him of Nick Jonas’ cryptic offer of “a way out of here”.   
“You don’t know that.” Shawn insisted, “maybe he does want to help.”   
Stiles rolled his brown eyes; “Do you ever listen to yourself? Like, actually listen? Is there any inner monologue there at all? The guy is a total nutcase and is probably selling you this bullshit as some mission for the warden or for that twisted dick Cavill to set a trap for you guys!”   
“I wouldn’t be so sure.”   
Derek Hale’s voice seemed to appear from nowhere, making Stiles jump and gasp in shock.   
“You scared the shit outta me, Der!” he gasped.   
“Why not?” Tom asked, his head cocked to the side like a curious bird.   
Derek looked around the prison yard, careful that no-one was in ear-shot;   
“If this discussion is about what I think it’s about, then you’d all do well to stop discussing it so openly. Secondly, if Jonas is offering an escape attempt, take it. What reason does he have to work with Warden Goode or Cavill anymore? They didn’t protect him, they’ve left him in here to rot, to be tortured by you two pathetic pantywaists, they don’t care about him. He has no reason to lie at this point, he has nothing left to lose. I think his offer is genuine, and I’d take it while you can.”   
With that, Derek was away again, marching purposefully across the prison yard. Stiles smirked;   
“There he goes, the cryptic, yet budding conversationalist.” 

As rain fell heavily, the early June heatwave which had been kicked off by a lingering, monotonous thunderstorm which blanketed the city in a swathe of muggy, damp air, was finally broken. Water streamed down the cell window, and Shawn Mendes sat silently, contemplating his thoughts. It was times like these he wished he had a phone, Shawn had been a master of “zoning out”, sitting on his phone and letting his mind wander, now he felt like a fool, staring into space in the cold, concrete box.   
He was only partially listening to the conversation between his two cellmates.   
“How do we know you’re not bullshitting us?” Tom asked quietly, yet forcefully across the cell; “making us pawns in some little conspiracy with Cavill and the Warden?”   
Nick looked offended, his smoldering brown eyes wide; “They are the reason I’m actually in here,” he said; “I have literally no reason to lie to you right now.”   
The thought dawned on all three men at once when the cell door began to open. They needed code-words.  
“Prepare for entry!”   
Cavill’s booming voice only announced his presence seconds before he swanned in, dressed in a black turtleneck and jeans. His new job as Deputy Warden afforded him the option of wearing his own clothes, although he would still often swagger around in fatigues, his rifle cocked over his arm. He smelled of rich, spicy aftershave that almost made Shawn salivate. It had been so long since he’d been allowed anything other than roll-on deodorant.   
All three inmates got to their feet, as Henry’s blue eyes scanned the room.   
“Cell toss, boys.” He said with a callous smile, as officers cuffed the inmates and took them out of the cell.   
The sound of what little possessions they had being thrown around the room, their beds rifled through and every nook and cranny searched for contraband was a noisy one, and a feeling to which Shawn Mendes was still unused, his once-prized privacy torn away.   
“We have something here, Sir.” Announced one of the guards.   
Shawn and Tom’s hearts raced, Shawn’s knee bouncing involuntarily, a nervous tick he’d always had. Henry Cavill’s deep, chortling laugh did nothing to put him at ease.   
“How precious!” he grinned as he stepped out of the door and faced Nick Jonas.   
He held the long, thick dildo in Jonas’ face with a snarling smile; “Oh, Nicky! Tut tut tut.”   
Jonas rolled his eyes, his face burning beet red with humiliation; “Fuck you, you obviously planted it. You’re not funny, Henry.”   
Cavill laughed; “Nicky, Nicky, Nicky. You know what the punishment is for contraband? Come on, you invented it?”   
Anger burst forth from the well within the pit of Nick’s stomach; “Fuck you, asshole!” he spat. “I’ve never owned one of them!”   
“In fairness,” Tom piped up; “I’ve never seen it in the cell.”   
Henry Cavill’s icy blue eyes glowered over to Tom Holland, who bowed his head in silence instantly.   
“Holland,” he said shortly; “I’d recommend keeping it shut, unless you want some of what this little pig’s about to get.”   
Tom was silent.   
“The only pig around here is you.” Nick muttered, just loud enough for Henry to hear. His lips set in steely determination; he smiled a thin-lipped grimace.   
“Keep it up, see what I do to that mouth of yours. Officers, take Inmate Z16992 to solitary.”   
Nick didn’t protest as he was led away. 

His eyes. Those big, dark pools of chocolate brown. They stared up at him, filled with every emotion on the face of the earth, beseeching the very heavens to save him. Derek Hale stood in the center of the floor his face expressionless. He could feel the eyes on him, but could only focus on the set below him, as the boy fell to his knees, his face a bloody pulp, teary eyes almost swollen closed as he begged for his life. His bloody mouth formed unintelligible words, the plosives now gone due to the swelling of his lips and buckling of his teeth.   
Hands clasped in a final Hail Mary, the boy gargled his own blood.   
Steeling his loins, Derek Hale whispered under his breath. The boy didn’t hear.   
“I’m sorry.”   
As Derek swung the final punch, the boy’s face turned to him, and Stiles’ dark chestnut eyes stared into him. His thin, crooked lips parted in a plea for mercy.   
“Please, Der.” He whispered; “Don’t hurt me.”   
Derek Hale bolted awake, panting and breathless. The bed screamed an inch across the floor as Derek sat bolt upright, sweat lashing down his body as he gasped for air. Stiles leapt from his bunk, his head cracking off the prison-cell ceiling.   
“Ow!” he hissed; “Fuck, Derek! What the hell, dude?!”   
Derek didn’t respond, instead he sat, his body racked by panicked breaths. He listened to his thundering heartbeat, booming in his chest.   
Stiles descended the ladder and peered into Derek’s bunk. Their eyes glinted in the summery night, fixed on each other. Sweat glistened over Derek’s masculine body as his thunderous heartbeat slowly began to calm.   
“You ok, Der?” Stiles asked; “Bad dream?”   
Derek grunted in the affirmative.   
“Want some water? Or something?”   
Derek shook his head, just throwing back the blanket as an open invitation. Stiles was taken aback; Derek Hale was not a cuddly little spoon type, so Stiles leapt at the opportunity to disrobe and get in bed.   
“You ok?” he asked as he climbed into the heat of the bottom bunk. A sweaty arm grabbed him by the chest and pulled him to lie down. He could feel Derek’s heartbeat against his arm, thumping and pulsing. He felt a drip land on his shoulder and it grossed him out, until he realized that it wasn’t sweat, rather the Wolf of Beacon Hills was crying.   
“Jesus, Der.” Stiles whispered; “What’s the matter? What’s happened?”   
“I screwed up.” Derek growled, suppressing his sobs. “I screwed up, I screwed up.”   
“It…it’s ok…” Stiles said, wrapping an arm around Derek’s muscled back and patting him lightly. Stiles Stilinski was not known for his comforting abilities.   
“You cry, dude.” He said; “Get it out, man.”   
Derek lay awake, silent in the darkness as he listened to the sound of Stiles’ snoring, which seemed to get louder every minute. Derek didn’t mind, he found it almost comforting.   
For Derek Hale, there would be no sleep tonight, just an awful pain in the pit of his stomach as he replayed it over and over again, that painful, guttural moment that he wished was a dream. Instead, it was real, his hands bore the scars, his mind repeating it, where after crying, pleading and begging for his life, one final swing of Derek’s fist had brought it to an end, and Cameron Dallas crumpled to the floor, breathing his last, as thunderous, rapturous applause filled the room.


End file.
